


All That Is Unsaid

by WaywardLass



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, Sexual Tension, Sexy Times, Slow Burn, That Tough and Quiet Guy, rough start, unlikely romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 62,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7040449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardLass/pseuds/WaywardLass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Still waters run deep."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not All Legends Are True

**Author's Note:**

> What am I doing? I have more than enough stories going on to start juggling something new...
> 
> But.
> 
> I like Sten. I find him really intriguing. During my first playthrus of Origins, I didn't really pay too much attention to him: there were too many distractions to really warrant focus on his subtle and succinct ways. Then, while I was looking up info on something else on the DA Wiki, I came across the entry on Sten and read how the character was inspired by samurai warriors. I was also curious about how his character was retconned to have actually come into contact with other Theodosian people other than Qunari. He is revealed to be someone fascinated with languages. He's also shown as curious, inquisitive, and intelligent: not at all like the mindless drone some people think of him as.* He stands in such stark contrast to Bull- deliberately so. But...just because Bull is able to show more emotion than Sten, doesn't mean those feelings aren't there. I like imagining Sten as being part of a grand tradition of stoic warrior archetypes, such as the frightfully precise Kyuzo, in "The Seven Samurai," the elegant and sensitive Jin, in "Samurai Champloo" or even the contemplative gangster Jef Costello in "Le Samouraï" and the solitary, melancholy Shane from the classic Western by the same name. What I am trying to say is that other than the fact I am a big samurai nerd, I think that Sten's quiet, more subdued ways conceal and perhaps protect feelings and thoughts that would be unacceptable to his station in Qunari society.
> 
> But what happens when his world is turned on its head, as it is when we first meet him: a ronin of sorts in search of his sword, his soul, his very essence and persona? What happens when he is confronted with a world so different...and then again, perhaps not so different? How can all these conflicting thoughts and feelings emerge while respecting the core of the character?
> 
> This is a story told in snippets, mostly parallel to the main plot of Origins. The POV shifts between Sten and Livia Cousland.
> 
> I started writing it sometime ago and after stepping away from my computer, thought I'd lost it. Searched my files and wanted to slap myself for not saving it. Thought it was kismet. "Oh, well." Thought it was kismet again when I found it much later, as if it had never gone anywhere in the first place. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> *And he likes cookies and kittens. Please: need I say more about this man's astounding depths? ;-)

"You must appreciate that spirit can become big or small. What is big is easy to perceive: what is small is difficult to perceive. In short, it is difficult for large numbers of men to change position, so their movements can be easily predicted. An individual can easily change his mind, so his movements are difficult to predict. You must appreciate this."

~ _The Book of Five Rings_ , Musashi

* * *

_That Qunari is unnerving._

Livia scraped her bowl clean of the meager meal with a hunk of the last of their bread rations. She peered at him every now and then as she chewed her food. Ever since the hulking warrior joined their group, she found herself ill at ease, even though she believed she had made the right choice in recruiting him back in Lothering.

 _Or so I hope_.

Sten always sat farther apart from their company around the campfire. Alone. He was like that. Quiet. Curt, and on occasion, acerbic. Serious. Sometimes even exasperating. He had very little patience. And just moments earlier, he had displayed very little patience for Zevran.

"You talk too much in order to say too little," he'd stated dispassionately as Zevran launched into one of his typically florid Antivan roundabout ways to express an opinion.

"And you say too little of nothing, which I suspect is exactly what is going on in your head!" the elf snapped, offended.

Leliana and Alistair had been forced to step in, hands raised in appeasing gestures.

"Everyone calm down and take a deep breath…" Alistair began, nervously following his own suggestion.

Livia had heard something about Sten's people long ago—stories told by a visitor to Highever. _A court envoy…perhaps a diplomat?_ She struggled to remember; she'd been much younger, still a child, but she recalled how her mother had cleared her throat and ordered her to bed pointedly when their visitor launched into tales of indomitable horned warriors landing on the shores of Tevinter.

She had rubbed her sleepy eyes stubbornly.

"But I want to stay!" she'd whined.

"Bed, Livia. Now," her mother warned her sternly. "You'll be having the wildest dreams if you keep listening to these stories," she stated, casting the envoy a glance filled with reproach.

The man, if he was in fact a diplomat, did not seem to be one gifted at picking up on subtleties. He simply ignored her mother.

"Yes…but not _dreams_. These warriors, these dragon-men, they fell any who are foolish enough to cross their paths. Their bloodlust has tainted the shores of Tevinter red…Nothing deters them, except death itself. No, not dreams… " He leaned towards her from across the table. "Nightmares…" he added dramatically.

Her small frame had shuddered back then.

* * *

When Livia first encountered Sten, he'd been locked away by the Chantry in what amounted to little more than a cage. Those unearthly violet eyes impassively observed the wagons departing in droves with the frantic masses of refugees from Lothering. She had frozen, gazing upon him as if he'd stepped out of the envoy's stories. She had been warned she was going to finally lay eyes upon a fabled Qunari and approached the prison warily…But once she stood before him, facing the locked door, his fists tightly gripping the bars, which looked almost dainty in his massive hands, she found herself gaping.

It was the first time she met that inscrutable stare.They contemplated each other wordlessly.

"He doesn't have horns," she had uttered wondrously, very softly, so softly she didn't think anyone had heard.

He'd startled her not only by talking back, but also by responding in a fluid, fluent Common.

"You aren't one of my captors. I will not amuse you any more than I have the other humans," he stated stolidly. "Leave me in peace," he demanded.

"What are you?" she asked, still puzzling over the absence of the legendary horns, wondering if there had been some kind of misinformation or confusion.

"A prisoner," he stated emphatically. At her silence he continued. "I am in a cage, am I not? I've been placed here by the Chantry." He peered over her head, at the commotion unfolding all around them. "I am Sten of the Beresaad," he declared, his tongue shaping the word into a foreign sound, "the vanguard— of the Qunari people."

Her patrician upbringing took over, as it tended to do when she found herself disoriented.

"I am Livia Cousland. Pleased to meet you," she stated instinctively, hurriedly, still examining his muscular frame and rugged, harsh features.

His brow furrowed. "You mock me," he accused. She blinked in surprise, disconcerted. Before she could offer anything in her own defense, he resumed. "Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands," he concluded. He cast a shrewd glance at the fleeing travelers. "Though it matters little, now. I will die soon enough."

"This is a proud and powerful creature, trapped as prey for darkspawn. If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy's sake alone," Morrigan protested behind her.

Alistair offered another persuasive argument on her heels.

"Not to put too fine a point on it, but Qunari are renowned warriors. If we could release him, perhaps he might help us."

Her lips tugged up into a brief half grin. _Not bad, Alistair. Duncan would be proud of your keen Warden recruiting instincts._

The Qunari's expression clouded. "I suggest you leave me to my fate," he declared.

Back then it had been only Alistair, Morrigan, a newly recruited Leliana and Gunther, her mabari. If she was going to attempt that cumbersome, unwieldy mission, she would need all the help she could get. She faced the Qunari once more, pulling herself up into a taller stance.

"I find myself in need of skilled help."

"No doubt," he stated dryly. "What help do you seek?"

"I am sworn to defend the land against the Blight," she stated. _Among other things,_ she thought darkly, the shadow of Rendon Howe lurking in her mind.

Her words had an unexpected effect. The Qunari moved closer to the door, examining her more attentively.

"The Blight? Are you a Grey Warden, then?"

"Yes," she admitted, unnerved by the intensity of his gaze.

"Surprising," he remarked. "My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens' strength and skill…though I suppose not every legend is true."

Alistair coughed behind her. She could almost hear him say, "That was a dis."

"I know," she stated, still in thrall. "Not every legend…" She tilted her head slightly. "Like your missing horns," she noted. "Right?"

He remained silent, their exchange reaching a small impasse.

"Would the Revered Mother let you free?" she wondered, more to Leliana than anyone else.

He ventured a reply. "Perhaps if you told her the Grey Wardens need my assistance. It seems as likely to bring my death as waiting here."

Dust clouds rose from the road as the people fled north, trying to evade the deadly scourge that gradually overtook the southernmost regions. Only the Chantry appeared determined to remain put until the last inhabitant of Lothering had fled. The thought of abandoning someone to such a fate— unarmed and defenseless in a small cage— seemed cruel to her. She had no doubt he would put up a formidable fight, even barehanded, but ultimately the punishment was as definitive as a death sentence. She had never liked such harsh, cowardly sentences—even back in Ostagar she had freed a prisoner from a similar cage for a petty crime.

Leliana indicated her approval of their plan.

"Allow me to speak to the Revered Mother," she proposed. "I will persuade her."

An hour or so later, they had returned, the key ensconced in Livia's hand. She had meant to approach him with calm composure, but upon glancing upon those hands, hands, she had learned just moments earlier, that had brutally slaughtered the very people who had tried to aid him, she moved forward unsteadily. She winced at her unwitting betrayal, the hard gaze she met informing her that he had noticed her falter.

Behind her, the others spoke to newly arrived Chasind tribesmen; they brought worrisome news of darkspawn incursions—a few villages at the foot of the Frostbacks, west of the Korcari, had been swarmed by the warring hordes.

Livia's hand stilled with the key stuck mid turn in its lock. "The Revered Mother said you have been convicted of murder," she stated somberly.

"I have," was all he offered.

"Are you guilty?" She sought out his eyes. They met hers unflinchingly.

"Are you asking if I feel guilt, or if I am responsible for the deed?" He appeared genuinely confounded. "However I feel, whatever I've done, my life is forfeit now."

"Who did you…murder?" she asked faintly. The Revered Mother had grown too distraught to give them the grisly details during their meeting.

"The people of a farmhold. Eight humans, in addition to the children."

She recoiled, her jaw tensing. He waited for a reply.

"And…and you were captured afterwards," she continued, flustered, unable to think of much else except for "murderer," again and again.

"There is no difficulty in capturing prey that surrenders," he reasoned.

She heaved a deep breath. _Thank the Maker for small mercies. Probably spared a few more unfortunate souls from an early demise._

Close by, the Chasind spoke animatedly, their heavy accents thick and difficult to unravel. What had Duncan said, though? _We are not judges. We welcome all who are willing to wield their swords against the darkspawn. Perhaps in the task, some will find peace,_ he'd explained as he'd taught her about the Right of Conscription back in those early, bewildering days.

"I confess: I did not think the priestess would part with it," Sten stated, glancing down at the key she'd left in the lock.

"She agreed to release you into my custody," she muttered, turning the key one last time as the bolt rolled back heavily.

"So be it." The rusty door creaked on its hinges as it slowly opened. "Set me free, and I will follow you against the Blight," he avowed.

He stood still before the open door. She said nothing.

"I have spent my life in the vanguard. I know war. And your lands need all the help they can get."

"Let's go," she finally announced, standing aside.

"It is done," he remarked, stepping forward. He towered over her. She imagined that massive hand could easily curl itself around her neck. She gulped uncomfortably.

"I will follow you into battle," he asserted. "In doing so, I shall find my atonement," he stated more quietly.

She raised her head just as Leliana approached them.

"The sins of creation are redeemed. All sins are forgiven. All crimes pardoned. Let no soul harbor guilt. Let no soul hunger for justice," Leliana declaimed, a benevolent smile emerging over her lips. "Maker be praised."

"Can your friend at the tavern find him some armor, perhaps even a sword?" Livia wondered.

Leliana nodded enthusiastically.

"I am sure we can convince him to unburden himself of so much gear before his escape north." She winked. Leliana turned and began to lead the way back to the tavern where they'd first met her only the previous evening.

"After you," Sten nodded.

"No," she quickly retorted.

She watched his broad back, burly shoulders, and rock hard arms swing in front of her, her eyes cold and narrow as they trudged past the harried travelers and their assortment of parcels.

 _I treated you the way I imagine Duncan would have, but that is as far as it goes. I don't think I will ever trust you at my back…or to have my back_ , she decided.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue between Sten, Warden, Morrigan, and Alistair back in Lothering from the game.


	2. Stranger Things

          

“Supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.”

- _The Art of War,_ Sun Tzu

* * *

 

Livia engaged their newest companion seldom and little. He did not seem to mind in the least, preferring to sit apart from them and only offering advice when it came to deciding on an immediate course of action. She spoke to him warily, eager to be released from any exchange they had. Still, her instincts had proven her right: he was relentless in combat. His imposing presence, calm, and experience, all made him a challenging foe. They had encountered random bands of darkspawn during their travels and she had to admit the Qunari fought fiercely. He was unlike anything she had ever seen.

Once, early on in their journeys, they crested a hill only to find an agitated ogre in a band of darkspawn scouts foraging through the debris of an abandoned encampment. She and Alistair, their blood quickening at the creatures' closeness, had wordlessly unsheathed their weapons and charged them, ready to engage in combat. Leliana and Morrigan quickly scrambled to follow them as they reached for their bow and staff; they were still unaccustomed to the haste at which they were often thrust into combat. Sten, however, trailed them by a few steps only, the hilt of the axe they had procured for him between his enormous hands at the ready.

Alistair struck at a hurlock that assailed him from the left. Out of the corner of her eye Livia saw both Leliana and Morrigan position themselves, shooting arrows and bolts at the darkpsawn that threatened to fall upon them. She stayed on course, climbing the path leading up to the menacing ogre who had stayed back, as if presiding over mayhem.

_The secret to this battle is speed and swift, accurate strikes. None of us is any match for the beast, should it decide to take us head on._

She needed something to create a distraction.

"Sten," she ordered tersely as he approached her. "Keep him occupied for me."

He nodded, not taking his eyes off the creature, and hoisted his axe at an angle. He lunged forward, releasing the blade in a narrow arc against the ogre's arm. It roared, turning its attention to him as he stepped back, provoking him with a near miss. Livia moved towards him in a half crouch, affixing her gaze to the beast's abdomen and planning a clean sword strike to immediately incapacitate it.

 _I've learned a thing or two since my first ogre at Ostagar,_ she smirked.

She dashed across the small field to flank the confused creature, aiming and accurately plunging her sword into its side. As she tugged the blade out with some effort, blood gushed heavily from the wound. A look of fury registered on the ogre's face. Its hand dabbed at the wound, smearing the eking blood over his greyish flesh. For a brief moment he staggered back, his eyes appearing to lose focus. She stepped back, falling into her defensive guard expectantly, prepared to unleash the killing blow once he faltered to the ground.

But the ogre rallied instead.

Infuriated, it turned its attention to her and let out a guttural growl. She gripped her sword firmly, prepared to ram the blade through him, as she gauged her angle of attack. The ogre moved forward, as if it were about to rush her, but before it was able to go anywhere a trail of silver blurred the air as Sten's axe lodged cleanly into its shoulder.

Wounded, the ogre bellowed, rousing the attention of the few remaining darkspawn fighting further down. Livia wasted no time and shoved her sword into the creature's stomach. Sten heaved a grunt as he wrenched out the axe and unleashed another blow, this time to its neck.

They both pushed the moribund ogre backwards as it sputtered, blindly clawing into the air, trying to take hold of something—or attempting to drag someone, anyone, down with it as it fell, bloody foam bubbling over its thickset lips.

Sten and she held each other's gaze for a moment.

 _Good work_ , she'd wanted to say. _We fight well together._

At the sound of an unearthly shriek, they simultaneously turned their attention back to the retreating darkspawn—only two left, desperately scurrying back towards the safety of whatever hole they'd climbed out of.

* * *

Livia wiped her sword clean of the gore, rubbing a rag along the length of the blade until it was dry. She flicked the small flask she carried with her open and poured a thin line of oil along the blade, from the guard to the tip, spreading it gingerly over the smooth metal surface with her fingers.

It had become a ritual of sorts, since the time she had begun training. Once it had signified the end of practice and drills. Now it was how she calmed and soothed herself after combat. The elegant longsword was all that she had managed to take with her from Highever. She ran the rag, scouring it over the more stubborn stains before rinsing the blade and beginning the process anew. It was a tedious routine, but one that helped her mind grow quieter. As Livia buffed the blade with the crumpled rag, she paused to roll her aching shoulders back.

When she lifted her head, she found the Qunari observing her interestedly.

"You fight like a warrior," he stated simply.

"Maybe it is because I _am_ a warrior." She lowered her head again, focusing on the blade.

"Why are you here?" he asked, glancing around the desolate clearing they had settled in for the night.

"Because I am not somewhere else," she mumbled, in imitation of the Qunari's infuriatingly clipped manner of answering questions. If he had picked up on her sarcasm, he did not give any indication of it.

"Women do many things. They are priestesses, artisans, farmers, or shopkeepers. But none of them have any place in fighting," he completed.

"Did that ogre put you up to this?" she smirked, vesting all her effort on a fading stain.

"It is not done. There is no more to it," he decided, turning away.

 _What a shitty, backhanded compliment_ , she grimaced, rubbing the blade with renewed vigor.

"So Qunari women aren't taught how to defend themselves?" she asked tersely.

"They don't have to defend themselves. They have the _antaam_ to fight for them."

"The what?" She grimaced.

"The soldiers."

"Well," she began, in a strained manner, "I will remember to wait for rescue next time I am attacked!"

"It isn't the proper way," he reasserted.

"Then I'll revel in being improper," she offered him a tart grin.

"Why would you wish to be a man?" he wondered.

She balked, her eyes widening in disbelief.

"I do not wish to be a man!" she scoffed.

"Good," he concluded. "That could only lead to frustration."

They stopped speaking as she silently fumed, but he did not move away. He stared at the flask of oil.

"I learned to fight from my mother." She ran her fingertips across the flat edge and satisfied with her work, sheathed the sword. She wiped her greasy fingers on the rags before she continued. "She was a raider. The best," she revealed. "She was called 'The Seawolf' by the Orlesians. And she fought valiantly."

 _To her last breath_ , she remembered bitterly.

"If I hadn't been taught how to fight, I would have died the night my family was attacked in our own home." She confronted him, her expression defiant. "So: care to tell me again how women shouldn't fight?"

"They shouldn't," was all he said. It made her blood boil.

"I am telling you right now," she protested, raising her voice, "that if I had waited for soldiers to rescue me, I would have _died_. Are you telling me that the right thing for me to have done was to accept my death passively because women shouldn't fight?"

Both Morrigan and Alistair turned their heads to catch the tail end of their argument.

"No. I am saying it is wrong that you should have had to fight to begin with. Under the Qun this never would have happened."

She rolled her eyes in frustration.

"You fight well. Like a warrior," he reaffirmed in a manner, she found, that seemed like an attempt to mollify her.

"You mean a _man_."

"A _Qunari_ ," he corrected, glancing quickly at Alistair.

"A Qunari _man_ ," she prodded.

"What other?"

Livia tossed her hands into the air. It was useless.

He crouched down beside her and seized the flask. She watched him crossly. He sniffed tentatively.

"What is this?" he asked.

She turned and was about to respond when she found herself face to face with Sten, his massive arm brushing against her as he leaned forward to place the container down.

"Elfroot seed oil," she told him curtly, cringing from the touch. She retreated to the rock she had been sitting on before their little debacle. He glanced down at his offending arm, a perplexed expression flashing briefly over his face. She was never sure how much Sten truly noticed and comprehended, but at that moment, her reaction had given him pause.

_I don't know what to make of you._

"I see," was all he replied. He rose, standing imposingly before her before silently turning and beginning to head towards the fire. A twinge of guilt nettled at her.

"Do you want to use some?" she called.

He halted, turning halfway.

"What for?"

"For your axe."

"Why?"

"To maintain it."

"It is an inferior weapon. It is not worth the effort."

"It may be inferior, but it is all you have right now. Don't blame me when you find yourself facing the Archdemon while holding a cracked axe hilt."

"It will not happen. Facing the Archdemon is a Warden's job." He was relentlessly exasperating.

"Which is why I oil my blade!" she retorted.

She could have sworn she had seen his lip curl up slightly before he trudged away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sten's comments on women warriors are from the game.


	3. Trivial Matters

"If one is but secure at the foundation, he will not be pained by departure from minor details or affairs that are contrary to expectation. But in the end, the details of a matter are important. The right and wrong of one's way of doing things are found in trivial matters."  
― Tsunetomo Yamamoto, _Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai_

* * *

When Zevran joined their group, things got interesting. Livia would observe surreptitiously as the Antivan succeeded in enervating Sten. At first, after Zevran's ill-conceived ambush, Sten was asked to offer his opinion on the matter of recruiting the Antivan assassin.

"I do not care one way or another," he'd declared. "He failed at his mission. As did I. You appear to collect us."

"And allow me to remind everyone here that he," Alistair emphasized, pointing at the blond elf, "tried to kill us. Just a few minutes ago."

"Why are you so fixated on the past?" Zevran asked, feigning innocence.

"Quiet!" both she and Alistair had snapped.

"Ladies!" the elf nodded flirtatiously to both Morrigan and Leliana from the ground, Livia's blade still grazing the base of his neck.

Both women scoffed in bemusement.

"And look at you! You are a big one, aren't you?" Zevran continued, remarking on Sten, as Alistair and Livia continued their back-and-forth deliberations, his Antivan accent familiarly musical.

Sten said nothing, but stared curiously.

* * *

The elf's accent brought back memories of the Antivan and Rivaini trading ships that docked at the port. He'd been much younger back then, already tall and strong, and he remembered the thrill of confronting with so much…strangeness. He was fascinated by the traders, their foreign attire, the unfamiliar languages that glided off their tongues so musically. He bothered any and everyone willing to tell him the meaning of a word, what they called whatever it was he was shaking and pointing to beneath their noses. He had an ear for languages. It wasn't something that went unnoticed by his superior officers, either. When they found that he was able to assist with brokering small deals, such as better exchange rates or more varied quality goods, he was granted a wider berth to pursue his interest.

Learning Common and a few words of Antivan and Rivaini dialect hadn't been difficult; his mind didn't struggle to connect words to meaning. He wasn't afraid of trying what he'd learned on the sailors and merchants, stumbling over words and correcting mistakes. He had a more difficult time connecting the foreign written symbols into sounds and then stringing them together into coherent meaning. He'd sat many nights under the tenuous glow of a lamp attempting to decipher the significance of those taunting letters, sometimes even successfully. Even when he finally managed to understand many of them, he realized that they remained elusive because he could not comprehend the chaos of these other cultures' existences.

It was baffling to him. All facets of that other world beyond their shores were. That was life without the Qun, he realized. An imbalanced society filled with angry and confused people who had no idea of who they were and where they belonged.

There were entire words that remained mysterious, untranslatable between their languages and Qunlat.

 _How to explain 'asit tal-eb_?' Everything had a role, a place, and a purpose.

Those wayward people simply did not know theirs.

When he was presented before the tamassrans as a boy, there was as brief moment when he was unsure what role he would play. The Elder tamarassan had deliberated for a long time. Longer than he was comfortable with. She had rubbed her cheek and conferred with other priestesses, many of whom had raised him.

"He could be either," he'd overhead the Elder tamassran conclude. "He could be a warrior…or he could be a scholar-priest," she'd declared.

He had waited in agonizing uncertainty as the priestesses discussed and argued about his fate. At one point, during one of the breaks in their deliberations, one of the tamassrans passed him with an inquisitive expression before stalling before him.

"And you? The hornless ones among us are said to have great destinies. Do you think you know what you are meant to be? _Ashkaari…_ or warrior?"

He'd not offered any opinion.

"Whichever you choose," he'd replied. " _Meravas_."

The woman smirked, averting her eyes.

"Well said! You just persuaded me," she stated with a sudden cryptic mirth, wandering away.

When the Elder tamassran had told him what was to become of him, he'd listened trustingly.

"You have the thirst, the intelligence, and curiosity of an _Ashkaari_ , and many among those who have known you would see you as one of the learned who bring glory to the Qunari…But you also have the strength, the discipline, and the steadiness of spirit to serve the Arishok as one of his warriors."

She had watched him closely for a reaction, for any indication that he would prefer one over the other.

He did not dare.

"Warrior," she finally declared loudly, for all to hear in the room.

He'd been relieved. That same night he returned to his quarters and gave away all his books and maps.

"I am to become a warrior; these are of no further use to me."

He distributed his belongings, one by one, into the hands of his age mates. He did hesitate during his purge of anything that did not identify him as a warrior, very briefly. One of the followers of the Prophet had written a book on the beliefs held by the other peoples in Thedas.

"To vanquish one's enemy one must know him well: his strengths as well as his weaknesses, his passions and his fears…"

He'd read the formal introduction dutifully, but what had really gripped him were the strange, fantastical stories from those foreign places that did not follow the Qun. He agreed that there was great urgency in bringing them enlightenment…but before that ever came to pass, he read stories about a great Maker, the birth of darkspawn: Tevinter, he discovered, was to blame for that and he tended to favor that view. His head teemed with all the tales.

He gripped the book tightly when an age mate attempted to take it. The boy cast him a perplexed expression.

"Take it," Sten decided at last, releasing his tome into the other boy's custody.

* * *

He was drawn to books, though.

There were many stories of concepts foreign to him. There were stories about constant struggles as different factions vied for power: families, nations, religious sects—their motivations apparently having more to do with their own personal glory and wealth than the well being of their subjects. Some of the books concerned themselves with all the intrigue of courtly life while other books avoided the politics completely and dedicated themselves to another prominent theme.

"Ro…manke," he'd he sounded out the words beneath his finger for the first time as he browsed through a pile of books brought by the Bas.

Those types of stories were especially tiresome. They were about stupid people who needlessly complicated their circumstances because of ridiculous fears, he concluded early on.

Too much energy and time wasted in pursuit of another at the cost of other important responsibilities, he'd think peevishly. He could understand the sexual need and tension…but those were things easily taken care of…either by the tamassrans… or by one's own hand. Either way, it didn't warrant all the madness that tinged so many of the books he read.

Life under the Qun did not encourage or nurture such relationships. They were tolerated and allowed when they did occasionally emerge; there were those who found…comfort in such arrangements and constancy. They found a certain wholeness and kinship with one particular member of their society and sought their pleasure only from that one. But those who became too attached to another were often more difficult to command, more torn in their allegiances. He had even heard of those that had chosen the unimaginable: to flee the Qun, unwilling to be parted because of missions and campaigns or to surrender any young to be raised properly.

Those stories, of those who foolishly lost sight of their paths because of such distractions, had irked him when he was younger.

When he read the covers of books newly acquired at the docks, he'd be careful to peruse the pages in an effort to avoid those "love stories."

 _Love_.

The word remained elusive to him. He was sure understood it as a concept. He was even quite certain he experienced certain facets of it: he was sure he knew it when he thought of his people, or recognized it in the surge of affection at the memory of the tamassrans who had raised him. He could not imagine it separate from duty, loyalty, and service. It hurt his head to contemplate it as including another, more intangible facet.

To read of the madness, of the upheaval such a sentiment caused so-called lovers made him wonder about the sanity of those people living further south. He had on more than one occasion scoffed at the saccharine descriptions of displays of affection, the contrived ways they went about to hint at affection, or the maudlin lamenting upon even the suggestion of loss of that bond. It all came across to him as a fixation, an illness one should visit a healer for.

He'd read, with morbid curiosity, graphic accounts of lovers coupling. He'd often shut the book, unimpressed with the indulgent nature of the encounter. Lovers would become so lost in each other that apparently nothing else mattered. They uttered foolish things, made impossible and impractical vows and promises. It was indulgent. Selfish. Obsessive.

"Here comes our best customer!" one of the Bas traders would exclaim when he appeared at the docks. The merchants would unveil small crates filled with leather-bound tomes.

"No romances this time," a Rivaini reassured him once, amused, "Or women warriors."

* * *

The first time he'd had lain with a woman had not gone well.

He'd gone to the tamassrans following orders to present himself after a difficult first tour of duty in the Seheron outskirts. The desert landscape was harsh and hostile and he'd been one of the few members of his group that hadn't been demoted, reassigned, or killed.

Before then, he'd been resigned to fulfilling those inconvenient needs by taking himself in hand and simply getting the deed done with. He was seized by such urges often enough, but he resolved them almost as quickly as they appeared. To him it was exasperating, a waste of his time. The stirrings would gradually overcome him, usually late at night on his bedroll, or early in the morning, when he'd awaken with a persistent erection that refused to subside. He was loath to admit that it felt pleasant at all: if anything, it was more of an affliction, an itch he merely scratched until it was quelled.

But the evening he had presented himself to the tamassran order, he wondered what would be so different, what would warrant that embarrassment.

The tamassran he'd been brought to had been, he had to admit, appealing: she had an imposing presence and a husky, deep voice that immediately put him at ease. Before offering to serve the order, she must have done work involving physical labor, he'd quickly gathered. Many women often dedicated a few years of service to the tamassrans. Although not all were meant to progress through the ranks of the priesthood, many were proud of the time they'd dedicated to the order and of the young they'd born the Qun during that time.

The tamassran unceremoniously led him into a plain room outfitted with a bed. Candles burned in wide branched candelabras on a solitary table, bathing the room in a golden glow.

She ordered him briskly to undress and he'd done so unquestioningly, under her assessing gaze. In the few months he'd been out training in the Seheron, his body had changed further: his early training had ensured that he no longer resembled the wiry lad he'd once been; he'd acquired greater bulk and muscle—something the woman remarked on as she inspected him.

He awaited her orders as she removed her robe and approached him. Hers was merely a naked body: he did not think of her as something to covet or desire. Bodies were vessels to perform work, to serve. When she stood before him, her heavy and round breasts brushing against his chest, she contemplated him very seriously.

"Is it your first time?"

"Yes."

She frowned.

"I will lie with you, but know this: you cannot kiss me," she told him dryly.

He nodded in acceptance. He didn't mind. He had never kissed anyone before and was growing more and more eager to conclude their meeting.

"Know this, too: I derive no pleasure from this encounter," she told him, sitting on the bed and sinking against the pillows.

He hesitated. Something was not right.

"Well?" she scolded him, adjusting herself over the bed.

She peered at him with annoyance. Perhaps she was irritated by the fact he was not in the least bit excited; he stood before the bed indecisively, his cock flaccid.

"We are always expected to _give_ , and _give_. All I asked was that _he_ always be assigned to _me_ ," she grumbled enigmatically, sitting up and nonchalantly taking him in her hands.

She grew silent, focusing on her ministrations. At her touch, experienced and firm, a jolt coursed down his spine. No one had ever touched him so intimately. She moved expertly, gently tugging and stroking him in a manner that was at once unexpected and tantalizing. He found his breath growing quicker, shallower as she caressed the length of his cock, only releasing it once it was fully erect. She leaned back against the pillows again and pointed at the tuft of dark hair between her parted legs.

"Now," she ordered him.

He awkwardly knelt on the bed, unsure of how to proceed but spurred on by the provocative caresses she had bestowed upon him. He certainly knew what was expected of him: any Qunari in the antaam either heard or talked of such visits…but he realized with alarm that the only detailed instructions he had gleaned on such affairs had come from those wretched books he'd come across years earlier. It was disorienting for a moment; he was with someone who would not even kiss him—kissing, he had gathered, appeared to be an early preamble to what he was about to do. He hovered over her, waiting for her instructions. She simply parted her legs further and then, finding that he merely stared, grabbed the girth of his erection, tugging him somewhat roughly towards her. Despite her calloused indifference, he shuddered once she guided his tip against her yielding warmth and wriggled her hips so that he gradually burrowed deeper inside her. Her arms encircled him mechanically and she huffed impatiently.

"Go on," she ordered him.

He closed his eyes in part to conceal the overwhelming sensation that spread throughout him so intensely and in part to shield himself from the woman's resentful glare. She raised her hips, pushing against him and he slowly began to thrust inside her. It was better, he had to admit, than his lonely handling of such matters: she enveloped him completely in that alluring softness. Despite himself, he found each thrust heightening that pleasant yearning.

The woman's arms held him limply and when he opened his eyes, he found her face turned to the side indifferently—he had a momentary impression that the only reason she bucked her hips against his was because she hoped it would hasten the process. At one point, the sensation was so powerful, so exquisite, he was overwhelmed by the odd, irrational desire to share it with her, to find such pleasure reflected in her face as well. He ventured a timid caress, his hand brushing over her hair, his lips instinctively seeking her neck between a kissing and grazing motion. She immediately wrenched his hand off her and strained her neck away at the touch of his lips.

"I told you," she warned. "None of that. I don't let anyone else do that, except for _him_ ," she continued crossly.

She renewed her pounding against him and he shut his eyes again, this time because of something he did not comprehend, something that stung him for reasons he couldn't—and didn't want to— grasp. The unpleasant feeling only subsided when he finally came, gripping her tightly despite himself, grunting from the force of his release.

She said nothing and remained motionless as he slowed down his thrusting, gradually stopping until he was aware of the unpleasant silence in the room, except for his breathing.

"You're done," she declared, jabbing her fingers into his ribs so that he would move off her.

He rolled off, lying beside her, immediately wishing he were alone again. They both stared at the ceiling.

"This may be a tamassran's duty," she said in a quieter voice, "but it is unfair. Why deprive us of joy when we find it?"

He sat up in the bed.

"Is there…" he struggled to express his thoughts. "What you did for me…I will do for you," he offered, thinking that perhaps she would treat him less harshly. "If you teach me," he added.

She contemplated him wordlessly, her expression suddenly dull. The relentless sun of the Seheron had already darkened his skin to a tawny shade, contrasting with the silvery white of his shoulder length-hair and his clear violet eyes. He wondered if he displeased her that much.

"You think you can give me pleasure?" she asked in a harsh manner. "You? That's not how it is. Here," she began, her eyes shifting to the closed door, "we play with dangerous things; I didn't realize how dangerous until it was too late. See, I could bear this falsehood, these empty joinings," she explained. "I could do this—and I did—as long as _he_ was allowed to see me once in a while. As long as we could be together at times. But now we aren't allowed even that," she lamented. "We aren't allowed anything. And no one will tell me why."

Sten's brow furrowed. She sounded as strident as the mad men and women in those wretched books.

"What are you saying? You are duty bound," Sten reminded her. "You serve something greater. You serve the Qun," he risked.

Her expression darkened, and she briskly pulled on her robe.

"I do not need some whelp to lecture me on my duties."

She smoothed her brown hair over her short horns.

"You must leave now," she demanded.

Sten silently rose from the bed and grabbed his trousers.

He exited the room quickly; she hadn't reciprocated his parting words. She would not even look at him. As he made his way down the steps, attempting to leave immediately, he was deterred by other priestesses who led him to the Head Tamassran. The older woman asked him directly about his encounter, trying to gauge whether or not it had accomplished its aim of offering him some comfort and relief. He did not hesitate in telling her everything that had happened. He worked through the sharp discomfort as he recounted what she had said to him. He suspected something had been wrong— had been off early on. He should have trusted that feeling.

The Head Tamassran flew into a rage.

"She has lost her aqun."

The woman turned her wary grey eyes at him.

"I regret this deeply."

She had him shown to another room, where he could stay the night. He was grateful, as he would not be allowed back into his barracks at that hour. Later on he was jarred out of the slumber he had fallen into by shouts. Muffled thuds, sounds of struggle carried down from the stairwell and he hurried to the doorway, ready to offer himself to the tamassrans' defense. Before he could open the door, however, he eavesdropped on the argument unfolding.

" _Dathrasi_!" the Head Tamassran cursed. "You forget your place? You insult our own?"

"He is not kadan to me," the woman growled disrespectfully. "I will have no other!"

He caught a glimpse of the two large men, each grasping one of the woman's arms as they led her down the steps.

He told himself later that he had done the right thing. He would sometimes find himself thinking about why he had so willingly told the Head Tamassran what had transpired. He believed that tamassran—that angry, bitter woman— was not fit to serve. And he was right. If she did not wish to serve, she shouldn't. Why she did so, he did not understand. It did not bide well for anyone. It was likely that she had been sent off to be re-educated. Possibly given qamlat. Whatever happened, he thought, she should no longer be a tamassran.

Sometimes he'd find himself wondering briefly if the man the tamassran kept alluding to knew what she had done, if he reciprocated those unreasonable feelings. Perhaps he would have to be sent off to be re-educated too.

At times like those, he found himself restless, irritable. He remembered the disdain, the indifference, her hand shooting out to halt his as he had sought to share his pleasure. He hadn't asked for any of it. He'd wrestle with that melancholy that sometimes kept him awake at night.

 _I am maraas like this_ , he'd think. _Useless unless I am on a mission, working, being of use_.

He hated his leaves and furloughs.

* * *

He saw other tamassrans after that. He didn't actively seek them, but he was sent to them on occasion. None of his encounters afterwards had been like the first. He'd always been welcomed since.

Still, his first experience had left him jaded and mistrustful.

 _I derive no pleasure from this_ , he remembered despite himself, despite the encouragement and admiration of his other partners.

 _Yes, she had lost her balance, her aqun_. He knew that. He knew she was unwell.

But a part of him could not help thinking that it had been because of him. That she had loathed him, the threat of his touch— that she had found him wanting and unworthy. He had gone to her because he had been ordered to. He had performed his role. She had not performed hers.

When he visited the tamassrans, he tried to make the meetings as quick as possible. A few times he would meet with some that were exceptionally skilled and he would get lost again in the undertow of sensations at their hands. Even when they allowed him to reciprocate, even as they revealed their satisfaction at his touch, even in light of the momentary relief, the fleeting pleasure, he found himself feeling wary and disconnected at the end.

_It's a falsehood: an empty joining._

_It isn't real_ , he understood. Whatever real was supposed to be.

It was all, he admitted to himself truthfully, awkward and false. Pleasant, but still strange. He willed himself to accept it, but he could not dismiss the hollowness that followed his lonely walks back to his barracks. He followed the Qun devoutly and if he questioned things, as his superiors knew he was prone to do on occasion, it was because he wished to serve the Qun the best he could. He went to the priestesses as told. Even if he preferred not to. He went compliantly and did what was expected of him.

He would engage in any act, fulfill and pursue any desire, although he avoided kissing their lips and letting them kiss his. He was deft in evading them, quickly distracting them. They did not seem to truly notice or mind.

It had to be a streak of stubbornness and pride, he'd chide himself later. But once they had dispensed their praises and admiration, he refused to suffer lies from their tongues twice.


	4. Weakness

"No man is invincible, and therefore no man can fully understand that which would make him invincible."  
― Miyamoto Musashi, _A Book of Five Rings_

* * *

He noticed everything. Everyone. One of his commanding officers had once suggested he should become Ben-Hassrath, he was so perceptive. But when it came to lying, to manipulation, he was less successful. He had little patience for dissimulation. He was assigned to the Beresaad, instead.

He had been curious about Alistair. He thought that among all of them, Alistair would have been open to the Qun. Alone in the world, he had been raised in the rigor of a military order. He sought acceptance and purpose: something the Grey Wardens had given him. From what he had seen, Alistair was a capable warrior: strong, brave, and intelligent. Still, Alistair was too emotional. He still grieved for the man called Duncan and that sadness fueled much of his vigor in battle. He was impulsive, prone to rage in the battlefield. He had seen the hatred in his eyes as he fought darkspawn. Especially darkspawn.

Morrigan had intrigued him when he'd first met her. She was bas-sarebaas—a sarebaas unlike any other he had seen. He fought alongside her warily early on, ready to turn his axe against her should she appear to lose control and become a threat to them. But she was skilled in battle. Precise. Unflinching. She fought with a calm and focus he admired. He afforded her a begrudging respect. She also liked to test him, to tease him. She acted forward and he was never sure if she was being sincere or playful. He didn't care to find out. He was indifferent, surprised at most, even as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye to admire his physique.

Leliana he understood. She was devoted to the Maker and the Chantry. She reminded him of the tamassrans and their watchfulness, their shrewdness. They, too, were keen observers of society and politics, of culture and art. The fact she was an accomplished duelist was problematic. Not like a Tamassaran. Not correct, he'd frown, watching her spar with the blonde elf.

The elf was a buffoon. He'd often find himself arching up an eyebrow in surprise or irritation—sometimes both—at something the elf had stated or suggested. He let Zevran think he picked up on far less than he did; it was easier that way. It gave Zevran a peculiar delight when he noticed he had succeeded in irking Sten.

Later in their travels they had recruited an elderly bas-sarebaas: another woman. By virtue of her age, he was less uneasy with Wynne than he was with Morrigan. If she had managed to live as long as she did, then she must have learned how to rein in her powers and control them appropriately. She also behaved more formally, showed more decorum. He appreciated that—a small acknowledgement of rank and order in that savage land.

There was also their latest addition: a redheaded dwarf who was perpetually inebriated. He had been prepared to argue against bringing him along on their mission through Orzammar, but he'd been impressed by the man's fury in battle. His strength was natural, his technique blunt and based on pure brawn. He could admire a man who could offer himself up completely in battle. When Oghren swung his mace, he swung hard, with no hesitation or fear. That he respected.

The one who interested him most, though, was Livia. He had fallen into step behind her with resignation. A woman warrior leading him? Perhaps an appropriate punishment for his transgressions, he'd thought glumly. But in combat she did fight ferociously, wielding her sword skillfully. She was strong and also an excellent strategist. She was keenly aware of where everyone in their group was on the battlefield and demonstrated an uncanny ability to make split-second decisions during demanding situations. After a battle, as they piled corpses of darkspawn to burn—both to contain any Taint and as a warning to scouts considering taking the same path—he'd find himself going over the battle and discovering that he would have likely taken the same course of action or organized their tactical formation in the same manner. Gradually, he came to accept her leadership without the reticence that had initially nagged at him.

It wasn't so strange, after all; he fit in effortlessly, he thought glumly: a woman warrior leading sarebaas, other women in armor, an elf, a dwarf, a bastard prince… and a soulless Qunari.

* * *

_She rises early_ , he remarked approvingly.

Livia was disciplined. Even in the wilderness, she awoke before dawn, shivering, her breath smoky in the chilly air. She would grip her sword tightly and practice various stances and guards, thrusting her blade forth or striking across the air.

He often found his eyes lingering over her arms and shoulders and appreciating her excellent posture. Her stances were clean and her movements fluid. She'd stare ahead, a stern expression on her face as she engaged imaginary foes. She practiced until their camp stirred with life, until the others awoke, and then they would all go about their daily routine.

He knew all this, of course, because he was up at the crack of dawn as well.

He would never, ever, for as long as he lived, grow accustomed to the sharp cold that seemed to settle in his very bones. Ferelden was a cold, damp place. They traveled over muddy roads under grey skies. Thin rain often misted over them during their journeys.

He saw it as yet another challenge to overcome. He was determined and terribly stubborn as well. He would sit up in the darkness, his broad torso naked in the frigid morning air, his companions mumbling hushed protests as he slowly donned his tunic, trousers, belt, boots, and armor. He would roll up his bedroll, pack away all his belongings, and step out into whatever dour weather Ferelden had in store for them that day.

He trained as well. He practiced the same routine he had been taught as a young man—it had become a ritual during which he cleared his mind and engaged his body, the weight of his weapon and his limbs working as one. There were positions and sequences he repeated to maintain himself limber and, he admitted, to forge a connection—even if a weak and tenuous one—between himself and his fellow Qunari soldiers far away. Somewhere, far up north, over the sands of the Seheron, the antaam engaged in a similar routine, a similar practice.

For his practices he used his weapon—a clunky axe the fast talking merchant at the tavern in Lothering had awarded them for a handful of coins. He'd grown accustomed to the reassuring weight of his own sword—he'd found that process of readjusting to the new weapon a necessary one—even if it unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Livia would practice at one end of the camp and he at the other. Some mornings, they emerged from their tents at almost the same time. She would nod at him, her eyes skittish, her lips in a tight grin before she quickly headed in the opposite direction from him.

It was just as well. It never would have crossed his mind to train with a woman.

* * *

One chilly morning, the sun shining ineffectually overhead, he finished performing a sequence of attacks only to look up to find a pair of curious eyes following his movements. Livia had crouched by one of the tents, a blanket over her shoulders, a steaming tin cup warming her hands. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed that Wynne and Alistair had also awoken and tended to the small fire that would soon be burdened with their kettle and pot for the morning meal. He must have lost track of time, he realized, he was so absorbed in his actions.

"You Qunari ever hear of parrying?" she asked, sipping from her tin cup.

"No need. We are the reason everyone else learns to parry in the first place," he muttered, dropping the head of his axe to the ground, concluding that he was, in fact, done for the morning.

Her eyes widened.

"Did you just make a joke?"

He snorted dismissively.

"No."

She smirked.

"Perhaps if you learned to parry, you would have already conquered southern Thedas," she teased.

"It's too cold. There is no rush."

"That was definitely a joke." She pointed at him. "I believe Zevran and Oghren are finally rubbing off on you."

He glared contemptuously at the tent where the two probably remained asleep, oblivious. Snoring.

She watched him put his axe away and remove his heavy gloves.

"I could use a sparring partner," she said quietly.

He frowned.

 _No_.

"Train with Alistair," he suggested. "You are better matched."

"I've tried." She pressed her lips together as she glanced towards the camp. "He is better on the battlefield, I'm afraid. He's…he's all right if we drill…but he's too distracted. His mind just isn't into it," she admitted quietly.

 _Pretend you are darkspawn_ , he almost said. _That will help._

"Then spar with Leliana."

"I do. Sometimes. She's more of a duelist. It's nice for a change, for a challenge, but it's not what I need."

"Zevran."

"Same problem.

"Oghren."

"I'd agree that is a better match, except for the fact he would never get up for practice," she huffed. Her eyes turned back to him. "I'd appreciate your help. You are a good warrior," she stated, eyes downcast.

He did not react, despite the twinge of pride that bloomed within him.

"Will you practice with me, Sten?" she finally asked him directly.

He said nothing. He crossed his arms and stared at the trees in the sprawling valley below.

"I do not wish to injure you," he finally revealed.

Instead of receiving the expected acknowledgement that would end their discussion, she let out a derisive laugh.

"Hurt me? That's rich!"

"I am larger and stronger than you. That is not an opinion: it is a fact."

She nodded.

"I know that. I can see that. I am well aware of my opponents and what their strengths might be when I go up against them. I have, however, an advantage," she stated smugly.

He furrowed his brow.

"What advantage?"

"I strike quickly. And I strike precisely."

He remained in silence trying to understand how that would save her if one of his massive blows struck her.

"Actually, perhaps it is best that we not spar. I wouldn't want to hurt _you_ ," she decided, pursing her lips and scratching her chin.

"And how did you reach that conclusion?" he questioned, wondering if she was, in fact, less reasonable, after all, than he had originally surmised.

"You, I'd have to fight giving my all. It would be hard to pull back. I might actually hurt or wound you," she said seriously.

"Unlikely," he exhaled patiently.

She reached down and grabbed a large fallen branch and cracked a few smaller dry twigs off the forked end before raising it at him.

"If I strike you before you can defend yourself, I win."

She kicked another smaller branch towards him.

He frowned, displeased at the course of events unfolding. He gripped the branch forlornly.

"And if I take your stick away, we will never do this again," he proposed.

She crisscrossed the air with her branch tentatively before agreeing. She bent her legs slightly, falling into a guarded stance, the branch extended like a sword. He held still, waiting for her to go to him.

Suddenly she dropped the point of the branch down and turned her head towards the woods. Her face grew serious.

"Did you hear that?" she asked with concern.

He glanced quickly towards the trees. Before he understood what had happened, something blunt prodded him forcefully in the stomach.

"You cheated," he informed her, surprised.

"In battle it is life or death. There are no rules—only victors," she taunted him, stepping back, raising her branch at him triumphantly.

 _Underhanded_. His eyes narrowed.

"I win," she smiled infuriatingly. "Or…best of three?" she innocently suggested.

He fell back into position, determined to teach her a lesson.

She crouched again and he could see her thinking about her next maneuver, her eyes darting about. Without warning, he stormed her. She had no time to react. Her eyes widened and she bumbled backwards. He simply wrenched the branch out of her fist.

"But I wasn't ready yet!" she complained weakly.

"That is not my concern," he stated, turning around to toss the branch back at her as he walked back to his starting position. "We are even now."

She was no longer grinning cockily.

_Now we finish this._

He prepared to rush her again. It obviously discomfited her. He would use it to his advantage. She was unlikely to adapt so quickly to something so instinctive. But to his surprise, when he began charging her, she feinted to the left. His reflexes had him bolting in the same direction, but she managed to recover and pull back to the right and circled him, placing herself behind him. She rapidly thrust the branch at his back, but he responded immediately, his torso turning slightly to evade the strike and his arm lunging forward to grab the stick. He grasped it firmly, tugging it in towards him, but she did not let go. Instead, she went crashing into his chest. They both peered in confusion at the branch, both their hands gripping and pulling at it.

She was so small up against him. Almost delicate, he found. She struggled against him, trying to reclaim the branch as he remained put, unyielding, rather enjoying her frustrated efforts.

A strong wind rose from within the woods all of a sudden, whipping through the treetops, snapping branches and rustling leaves. At the startling noise, the hand that had been trying to wrest the branch away from him immediately let go and slid up his arm to grip his shoulder instead, as if seeking shelter. Almost simultaneously, he too dropped the branch, his arm tightly encircling her waist and pulling her in closer to him, ready to shield her from harm's way. The wind died down, a cloud of leaves drifting all around them. That was how they found themselves: she clasping his shoulder and he her waist. She cast him a sheepish glance and began saying something, but Zevran rudely called out behind them.

"Is this a battle or are you going to begin a minuet?"

She turned in alarm to see Zevran sitting between Oghren and Leliana, all three watching them.

"Who won?" the dwarf asked gruffly.

Livia released his shoulder and Sten promptly removed his hand. She blinked in apparent confusion before staring at the fallen branch beside them.

"It's a draw," she declared, regaining her composure. "Agreed?" she asked him pointedly.

"It depends. What does that imply?" He crossed his arms.

"It means the dwarf owes me five silver!" Zevran cried out joyfully.

"Not yet!" Oghren pointed at them. "Come on, Warden. I was betting on you. No offense, Sten, but I usually favor the little guy because, you know, size doesn't prove anything." He winked reassuringly at her.

Zevran sat up straight.

"Oh, but I beg to differ, my furry friend! Size has _everything_ to do with it, don't you agree Leliana?" he asked in a lewd manner.

"The size of what, pray tell?" she asked with mocking sweetness.

"I can show you back at your tent, if you wish," he grinned slyly, arching an eyebrow at her.

"I'm afraid I don't have time for a 'little' diversion," she teased.

Zevran comically pretended to be deeply wounded, dramatically splaying his hand over his heart while Oghren chuckled.

Sten observed Livia bend down to reach the branch. She examined it pensively before raising her eyes to him once more.

"Shall we have a rematch tomorrow?" she asked hopefully.

He glanced down at his hand, the traitorous hand that had clasped her to him so protectively. It aggrieved him to admit that she had earned… _What_?

_Respect. And admiration._

"Very well. No cheating," he warned, stepping away from them all.


	5. Worthy

"Supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting."  
― Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

* * *

The thieves revealed themselves, stepping out from behind rocks, upturned cart and stacked crates. A few lined up over the ridge overlooking their position. Livia quickly calculated the odds of going up against the band of highwaymen.

"If you won't pay the toll, then we shall have to collect it ourselves, right, boys?" the leader of the band laconically announced.

"I don't recommend you try," she stated coolly. "We might air our grievances at your failure to keep these roads safe."

The leader, his face strategically concealed by a ragged kerchief tied over half his face, appeared to chuckle.

"Look: the country is in disarray, the Blight is beginning, and you are preying on fleeing travelers," she reprimanded them, growing stern. "You are a disgrace."

Sten held his position, prepared to haul his axe up at the first signal.

"The disgrace is in _Denerim_ ," the man retorted, incensed. "The true disgrace is the king slayer sitting on the throne. All is lost; Ferelden is doomed. We take only what is rightfully ours to begin anew."

"All is not lost." Her knuckles turned white from gripping the pommel of her sword. "So I will ask you this last time: lower your weapons. Let us pass and no blood will have to be spilled here today. Leave this place; do not prey on the refugees anymore and we will let you go. Save yourselves," she reasoned, addressing the dispersed group surrounding them. "What say you?"

The three words were her signal to their group. Discreetly, they all shifted almost imperceptibly, hands ready to fly up to cast incantations or swing weapons.

The leader of the bandits quickly assessed his band's reaction and finding them steadfast, signaled them to launch the attack.

Fighting sarebaas- mages, as they called them there—was not something to which most soldiers were habituated. Sten remembered the first time he'd faced a Tevinter mage. It had been an excruciatingly tiresome battle. He'd been forced to wield a shield to thwart the man's fiery strikes. He caught a shower of sparks off the sides of the large, heavy shield, fully aware that if one of those bolts were to hit him, it would scorch his skin painfully. With mages the problem was distance: they were casters and their attacks often succeeded if they maintained a good distance between themselves and their targets. Until he was able to breach the distance, he was merely a moving target. Once he was able to establish face-to-face combat, he was able to incapacitate them quickly. They were unaccustomed to grappling, to deflecting the speed and weight of a crashing blade or maul. It took patience and focus to down a mage. He knew that well.

Those idiotic bandits, however, did not.

In their lands mages were confined to towers and they probably had never confronted skilled mages hurtling fire and freezing their limbs with brisk gestures.

Both Wynne and Morrigan launched a barrage of crackling electricity and fire that immediately caused confusion among them. Leliana easily picked off the few standing on the ledge with her arrows, thwarting their own attacks or attempts to scramble down to participate in the hand-to-hand scuffle. Zevran wove quickly among them in the tumult, unexpectedly emerging beside one or another only to bury the hilt of his dagger into yielding flesh before vanishing again, stealthily gauging his next hapless victim. The arduous battling, however, fell to Alistair, Livia, and he. Oghren had been charged with protecting the mages off at a comfortable distance where seldom any attackers managed to surprise them. Alistair fought with a shield while he and Livia did not. Where Sten used blunt force to his advantage—foes who were not as battle seasoned could rarely withstand one of his direct strikes—Livia revealed herself to be more patient, giving an assailant the impression he had the advantage as she retreated, her blade raised defensively, all while shrewdly assessing openings and weaknesses. Only then she would finally strike. And her strikes were, more often than not, deadly.

Two bandits scurried away, unwilling to join their less fortunate brethren littering the muddy ground.

 _Those men abandoned their own in battle. They are basra-shokrakar_ , Sten decided, walking among the corpses.

The closest term he had found in Common for the concept had been "foul traitor." But even that did not seem to cover the depth of the betrayal of those who had chosen to turn their backs on their own at their time of need. At the end of the battle, they stripped the bodies of any valuables: weapons and coin, and then checked their camp nearby for any useful provisions.

* * *

Zevran let out a low whistle as they wandered into the encampment.

"They were sitting on a pretty nest egg, these bandits," he concluded, crouching before a row of chests of goods pilfered from those fleeing the southernmost regions.

Alistair turned a blade to and fro.

"Brazen, too. Some of these weapons are standard issue," he remarked, his nail tracing the grooves of a smithing seal on a blade.

Oghren hurried over to look.

"Yep. Denerim. Looks like these crooks didn't spare anyone. They took on royal guards coming down the Imperial Highway."

"Not down the Imperial Highway. They must have attacked survivors from Ostagar." Livia turned away, disgusted.

"I wonder where they planned to go with all these items," Leliana muttered, walking through the rows of stacked upholstered chairs, chests, and shelves filled with bric-a-bracs lining the shallow cave where they had established shelter.

Morrigan dipped her cupped hands into a bowl filled with tangled jewelry. She fished out a pair of gold earrings with large rubies dangling at the ends.

"I suppose they will not be needing these anymore," she decided, clipping one of them on her ear and admiring herself in a shattered mirror propped against the wall.

Alistair and Oghren lined up the weapons on the ground while Zevran picked up and examined blades in search for newer and better ones as he walked up their improvised lineup.

"Someone should tell Bodhan," Alistair suggested. "He should be reaching us soon. He might want to swap his cart for that one," he nodded towards an upturned cart that seemed, otherwise, to be in excellent condition.

"Not much gold," Leliana remarked, dropping a fistful of coins into a pouch.

"Gold isn't of much use here right now. You cannot eat gold when there is nothing to buy. It is why people loaded themselves with all these items: to barter," Livia concluded, surveying the cache of random items.

Sten swapped his axe for a two-handed sword of slightly better caliber. He practiced hoisting it up into an offensive stance, finding the haft well crafted and the blade adequately balanced.

Wynne sorted through a small crate.

"This will definitely be useful: it is where they stored their medical supplies." She began gathering vials of oily amber, emerald, and shimmering blue liquids among bundles of wispy dried-out herbs.

"Livia," Leliana called out, stretching her neck out from behind Morrigan, who had bedecked herself with several strands of pearls and practically covered half an arm with bracelets and golden bangles. "What are your orders?"

Livia examined the sky. Night would soon be upon them. They might as well take advantage of the shelter they had found. She was quite sure the fleeing bandits would not be returning with reinforcements.

"We wait for Bodhan and make camp for the night."

* * *

Gunther's barks alerted them to Bodhan's arrival. The old cart creaked as it negotiated the bumpy terrain. She had fallen into the habit of leaving Gunther with the dwarves for safety. They usually followed closely behind, coursing over pathways they had cleared earlier, ensuring that there was little peril to contend with. She told them that she wanted Gunther with them for their own safety—the mabari was a sturdy fighter—but the truth was that she did not want to needlessly risk the life of the last remaining member of her family. She welcomed the old mabari affectionately, sinking her fingers into his furry dark brown scruff and cooed playfully at him over his bright barks. She trusted the dwarves to care for him during her treks, especially Sandal, who delighted in him with almost child-like enthusiasm.

Livia finally allowed herself to drop down before the fire, rubbing her aching arms. Gunther, excited to have her face so accessible, launched into a barrage of licks. She groaned, turning her head away quickly. She pushed him away only to find him bumping his nose against her shoulder, raking his paw over her arm.

"Gunther! She scolded him in an unconvincing tone.

"Ugh," Morrigan interjected, twirling her fingers around a chain encrusted with semi-precious stones. "I don't know who is more ill-behaved: he or Alistair."

"I don't think Gunther would ever hump your leg if given a chance—" Zevran began before Leliana pushed him off balance to the side.

* * *

Livia scratched the mabari's head, smoothing down his ears as he rested contentedly against her, panting.

 _Fereldans love their mabaris_ , Sten noted, dropping his pack on the ground. The night was uncharacteristically clear—stars pinpointed the sky above without the trace of a cloud. He tossed his bedroll further back from the campfire and sat, watching the others engage in lively banter. Even Morrigan sat among them, he saw, and had not set up her tent farther away from them as she usually did. She often preferred to sit alone, leafing through the large tome Livia had brought back for her from the Circle of Magi. He had overheard her mention how it was a difficult book to understand, how she had to decipher the archaic language on each page. He'd sympathized, memories of his own days of deciphering strange words resurfacing.

"Come and get it," Ogren announced, pleased, after prodding the cooking hares skewered over the fire and finding them adequately roasted.

* * *

There was never enough to eat, Sten frowned, looking down at the dry chunks of meat in the pitted tin bowl. He glanced up and towards the dark woods. Stretches of forest appeared to be completely deserted—not a creature rustled, not one bird stirred in the canopy. They animals they did encounter seemed affected by the Blight: overly hostile and aggressive, attacking them on sight. Unfortunately, they could not take those carcasses. As they traveled further north towards Denerim, there were more signs of life around them and they were able to hunt. Still, there was no larger game. It was unnatural, he realized. Sten eyed his meal suspiciously.

_Rodents._

He scraped his spoon over the bottom of the bowl hungrily. Wynne had boiled some unappetizing grain that congealed into a glutinous mass beside the meat. He ate that too, he was so famished. As he sucked on the bones, he noticed Gunther watching him intensely.

He continued eating.

The mabari raised his nose into the air and sniffed.

Sten awarded him with a glare.

The mabari wagged his tail enthusiastically, approaching him, lured undoubtedly by the sight and odor of meat and the promise of leftovers.

"Parshaara," he muttered with annoyance, trying to shoo the animal away when he sat down in front of him, licking his muzzle in ill-contained anticipation.

 _Why do you not control your beast?_ He scowled at Livia, who was chatting with the others obliviously.

"Parshaara!" he stated more vehemently at the mabari. Back in Par Vollen, animals were not indulged and pampered in that manner, he thought crossly. They had to be useful and earn their keep. Cats were kept for mousing, dogs hunted or helped herd cattle. They definitely were not allowed inside homes or fussed over.

Gunther growled—an impatient, feisty growl rather than the deep, menacing one he had heard the dog make when confronted with darkspawn. Sten looked at the mabari indignantly.

He growled back.

The dog hopped onto his legs, his ears tucked back. He issued another low growl, staring at Sten intently.

Sten leaned forward defiantly and let out a deeper growl, baring his teeth.

Gunther did not flinch. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on Sten, his body alert and perfectly still, as if he were one step away from launching an attack on him.

 _Bold creature_. Sten stared into the dog's great dark eyes, an expression of such serious intensity in them, it was unnervingly human like. _He's wary, but he will not back down_ , Sten saw. _He will fight me even though he is scared._

Sten snorted lightly, finally cracking a small grin. As he broke eye contact and placed his empty bowl next to Gunther, the mabari barked loudly, his tail breaking out into a lively wag.

"You are a true warrior…and worthy of respect," Sten told him.

At this, the dog barked with renewed glee, moving forward and butting his head against his arm, sniffing determinedly.

Sten peered into his bowl and pulled off some small scraps of meat that had been clinging to a bone and offered them, pinched between his fingers, to the eager mabari. The dog gingerly took the meat from him, his warm spongy tongue lapping at his fingers in the process, before taking a few steps away to enjoy his treat undisturbed.

He stared at his hand before rubbing it against his trousers. When he raised his eyes, he met with the mabari's expectant gaze as he sat up eagerly.

"You are being greedy," Sten warned him.

The mabari didn't care and sought his hand, sniffing inquisitively, licking his fingertips. Sten raised his hand and let it hover over the dog's head for a moment.

 _I know_ , Sten thought. _I don't feel like I've had enough either._

He ventured a quick pat, and the mabari held still. His fur was short but smooth under his rough hands. He did it again, dragging his palm over the dog's head. His ears were sleek and soft—he enjoyed scratching those and the mabari tilted his head to the side so Sten could reach him better.

It was a strange experience, he gathered, stroking the large mabari, who at one point simply dropped to the ground, offering Sten his lightly furred belly, his tongue lolling heavily out of his mouth. Sten raked his fingers over the dog's upturned tummy and heard the creature heave a contented sigh. He glanced over at the others, engaged in their conversations, and then back at Gunther.

"You aren't complicated," Sten decided. "I appreciate that." He rubbed his stomach. "These bas treat you like a child when they should be learning how to be more like you."

He glanced towards Livia's back as she burst out laughing at something in conversation.

"I will tell you the truth," Sten said conspiratorially. "When she asks 'who is a good dog?' she is talking about you."

Gunther's tail wagged for a few seconds before he exhaled loudly, blissfully absorbed in Sten's scratching.

"Gunther!"

The mabari raised his head in a slight daze before quickly scrambling to his feet.

"Gunther, come have your dinner!" Livia called, glancing over her shoulder.

The dog stood and trotted over, immediately plunging his muzzle into the bowl Livia placed on the ground beside her. He felt a small pang of regret upon watching the mabari hurry away. For a brief second, he imagined himself returning home, arriving in Qunandar with a mighty mabari beside him.

His expression suddenly hardened.

He knew what would be a greater folly than stepping foot onto Par Vollen with a Fereldan mabari:

Doing so without Asala.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sten's dialogues with "Dog" are adorable. His growling showdown and commending Dog on being a warrior and worthy of respect are directly from the game.


	6. On Talent and Purpose

"To know ten thousand things, know one well."  
― Miyamoto Musashi, _A Book of Five Rings_

* * *

"Just leave it," Alistair said. "We can't take anymore."

"The mare won't be able to pull the cart," Bodhan warned.

Zevran despondently threw the assortment of swords and daggers on the ground while Bodhan abandoned two spare shields against some rocks and Leliana grudgingly deposited a small chest back where she'd discovered it. Morrigan had draped herself with as many baubles as her slender frame could carry. Livia surveyed the area one last time before facing forward.

"Where's Sten?" Wynne wondered, turning around.

"Go ahead. He's probably sorting through the armor." She waved her hand towards the path. "Not that anything would fit him," she huffed, pushing past the others. "We'll catch up. Don't wait for us."

"You know where we're headed—"Alistair pointed towards the open field.

"We'll catch up," Livia reassured him.

She watched as they followed the winding path around a sharp bend, disappearing from view. She blew her hair off her face and jumped into the shallow drop that provided the bandits with a hiding place.

"Sten!" she called out.

She kicked a solitary helm out of the way.

"We need to move. Let's go!" she tried again.

This time rustling sounds came from one of the smaller caves. The Qunari finally emerged, his shoulder streaked with a sticky tangle of cobwebs. In his hand he gripped the wire to what appeared to be the back of a framed painting.

"What are you doing wandering off on your own? We're already on the move!" she scolded him.

He glanced towards the road.

"I did not realize you were departing this moment. I am ready."

He hefted the pack he'd left at the entrance over his shoulders and gripped the heavy wooden frame more securely. She pointed out the way to him, taking on the dreary road through the rocky terrain. In the near distance she could see Bodhan's cart creaking along. She kept glancing back, watching as Sten carried the impressively large pack while also transporting the cumbersome frame.

"What is that, anyway?" she finally asked, growing increasingly annoyed by his lugging of something apparently useless.

"It is a painting," he replied.

"Yes, well," she began, her impatience rising by the minute. "Thank you for pointing out the obvious. "Now I'd like to know why in the Fade you're bringing that with you. Do you plan to nail it to your tent wall?"

"I like it," was all he said.

"It's a bit impractical, don't you think?"

"I can carry it."

"Good. Because no one else will," she groused.

She forged ahead, not even sure as to why Sten's lugging along a painting was irking her so much.

* * *

 

When they finally did break for a rest, Oghren distributed some rations out and Alistair unfurled the map over the ground to ascertain their location. Livia munched pensively on her hunk of bread before taking a swig of water from the battered canteen. Leliana leaned against the trunk of a scrawny tree, her boots tossed aside her fingers kneading the balls of her feet. Zevran lay on the ground beside her, arms crossed behind his head as he stared into the sky, merrily babbling away about something or another. Morrigan sorted through her pack, trying to find a more optimal way to fit all her new treasures inside while simultaneously trying to convince Bodhan to allow her to stash her belongings in the cart. Wynne had drifted off on a blanket she'd sprawled over the grass. Gunther rested beside her, quiet, but watchful. Sten, as usual, sat off to the side, chewing his portion of their sparse meal while staring at the painting.

"We still have a long march until we make camp," Alistair announced. "Don't get too comfortable. We depart in a bit."

Sighs and tired groans emanated from the group.

Livia arched her back achingly and let her gaze linger upon the Qunari. He was sitting on a rock, leaning forward, his attention devoted to the painting propped up against his pack. At one point he raised his hand to the canvas and gingerly ran a finger over it. She finally walked up to him, to see what was so enthralling. He turned his head slightly as she approached, but then ignored her as she stood beside him, also staring at the painting.

It was a simple pastoral scene: a bucolic path leading up to the door of a quaint mill on a small riverbank. It was the kind of inoffensive decorative item one would find hanging in a quiet nook at a formal estate.

"Didn't take you for an art appreciator. Tell me: are you encouraged to contemplate paintings before or after staging invasions?" she prodded.

"The artist is skilled," Sten noted, ignoring her barbs.

She redirected her attention to the canvas.

"This is not an easy thing to do," he stated admiringly.

"It's an average painting," she shrugged. "Nothing remarkable."

He examined her with his serious violet eyes.

"It _is_ remarkable."

She furrowed her brow and stared at the painting once more.

"No…I don't see it. It's just a…run of the mill painting," she teased, pleased at her own pun.

"The artist is disciplined," Sten continued, ignoring her play on words. "Everything about this painting shows dedication, hard work, and intelligence."

Livia crouched closer to where Sten was sitting to peer at it.

"I do not know the words you have for such things, but look," he pointed. "The surface is flat," he began.

"Canvas," she told him.

He stared.

"The surface," she explained. "We call it a 'canvas.'"

"Canvas," he agreed. "It is flat, yet when I look at it, I see depth and the trees cast shadows and the water gives the impression of motion," he marveled. "It is real and it isn't."

"Linear perspective," she told him as she contemplated it as well. "The artist had to plot out how everything in the composition would appear in relation to each other while also considering the distance from the viewer."

"You know this?" He peered down at her as she crouched next to him.

"Let's just say that as a Teyrn's daughter, I received a well-rounded education."

"Can you do this?" Sten asked.

She laughed lightly.

"I tried…Let's just say, very badly." She grinned, reminiscing about afternoons spent sketching the objects her patient tutor would place on a table or in a bowl in an attempt to create compositions that would test her skills. Light, space, shadow…She'd been too impatient and uninterested. When she raised her eyes, she found him scrutinizing her.

"Interesting," Sten concluded.

"What?"

"You can be disciplined. Why aren't you better at art then?"

"That's not how it works. There has to be talent…and passion, too, I suppose."

"You were told to do a task and you did not do it the best you could. Why?"

She bristled at his tone, at the judgment it contained.

"Because it didn't make sense to devote so much energy and time to something I didn't feel passionate about."

"So you argue that you are only good at the things you enjoy?"

"For the most part, yes," she replied, "but I think there is more than that: you are willing to put in the effort, the time it takes to master a skill if you also happen to be interested in it, if you are compelled for deeper reasons to do it."

"And how do you know that your choice of skill to master is the right one? That could lead to disappointment," Sten argued.

"Why is that?"

She could see the others starting to collect their belongings, preparing to resume their tedious march.

"You may end up putting too much effort in something that you are not meant to do, that won't be of use."

She blinked pensively, the peaceful scene on the canvas suggesting a happier, gentler time. She wished for a brief moment that she could enter the painting, enjoy the serene afternoon, the sun dappled road, the cool water rushing towards the mill wheel.

"Under the Qun we are told what to apply ourselves to by those who know us from birth," he explained to her. "There is no wasteful searching for purpose."

"You misunderstand." She looked up at him. "What you consider wasteful…That searching, the frustrating process of trial and error: we consider living. And I wonder, Sten, if there really is someone who can know us that well, who can easily discern who we truly are, what we truly desire," she said quietly.

"Under the Qun there are those who can do so with greater clarity, with our best interests in mind."

"Are there?" she replied, raising her eyebrows, genuinely intrigued. "Then perhaps the Qun aren't as terrible as you make them sound," she paused. "Because I don't think you can see someone so completely, act solely in their best interest unless you are selfless."

"What do you mean?"

Nearby, Alistair had awoken Wynne, who sat up, glancing about in confusion.

"Just that. Even the most doting parents can't help steering their children towards the paths they would want them to take. I also wonder how it is that we can decide on what we want in life until we have…lived somewhat. Tried different things. Do you ever wonder if the people who made the choice for you truly knew you? Did they truly see? Or are you simply dutiful enough to conform and not question?"

 _Ashkaari or warrior_ , he remembered that long past day, when he'd been so much younger.

"I do not question because I already know the answers," he told her. "I trust."

"Livia!" Alistair called out. "We are heading out!"

She clapped her hands together to loosen the dirt off her hands after she pushed herself up from the ground.

"What happens if those choices are wrong? People…change. Things happen. Not everything goes according to plan."

"No," he retorted too quickly, uncomfortably, for reasons he didn't quite grasp. "This has been done for generations. All of us have a purpose and we learn it early on so we can fully dedicate ourselves to it."

She sighed.

"You are more trusting than I could ever be. I always suspect the motives of those in power."

"I trust in the assurance order brings," he cautioned her. "As long as those who rule uphold our ways, our philosophy."

"Still doesn't mean they see you for who you are."

"It is irrelevant," he cut her off. "We embrace what is chosen for us to become."

She appeared as if she were going to say something, but she remained quiet.

"I don't think you and I will ever understand each other," she decided.

"Also not important," he said, smarting at her words, even though he understood there had been no intent to hurt or offend. "We only need to fight alongside each other."

"Aye," she agreed dryly.

He hoisted his pack up once more, his shoulders aching, and reached for the heavy frame with one hand and his new sword with the other.

She smirked, watching him weigh himself down with so many things.

"You know, you can take the canvas off the frame if all you want is to admire the painting," she suggested, standing before him. "That way you don't have to lug that heavy thing around everywhere.

"It can be done?" he asked with mild surprise. _That would be better_ , he thought. It would leave his hands free.

"Yes!" They had begun filing out of the small clearing towards the road once more. "Once we build camp we can pull the canvas away from the frame."

The billowing threads of a spider's web still clung to him, below his shoulder, trapped by the pack's strap over his chest and she absentmindedly raised her hand, brushing it briskly over the surface of his coarse tunic. He was firm and strong beneath the palm of her hand. She found herself slowing her movements, momentarily lost in the motion, in the sensation.

 _What am I doing?_ she scolded herself, glancing up. But he said nothing. He held still, as if waiting, looking at her intently as she splayed her hand over his chest.

"Cobweb," she patted him resolutely. "All gone now."

She turned away, acting as if she were still trying to wipe the sticky strands off her fingers.

* * *

 

 _Where would she belong?_ He wondered, looking at the spot where her hand had been just seconds before. Strange that people who seemed to wander errantly without purpose, or in pursuit of the wrong purpose, appeared to be at peace with such a thing.

_What you consider wasteful…That searching, the frustrating process of trial and error, we consider living._

Her words troubled him. He had the distinct impression he was missing something, something she understood and he didn't. A weakness on his part, he surmised. He wished to know. He preferred clarity.

Her hand had felt steady and warm, even under the rough fabric of the tunic. He raised his head to see her coursing down the path, her head held high, and he blinked slowly in her wake.

 _She is different_ , he thought, the imprint of her hand still lingering in his thoughts. _Why?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love that Sten's gifts in game are artistic: paintings, sculptures... This is attributed to a Qunari love of discipline- but I suspect the lines are blurred when it comes to discipline, talent...and passion.


	7. To Where the Path Leads

"In the midst of a single breath, where perversity cannot be held, is the Way.''

Tsunetomo Yamamoto, _Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai_

* * *

The relative peace Sten had carved out for himself was slowly being encroached upon. He had hoped to be left alone, to be considered too alien to be sought out by the others. It began slowly. Alistair was the one who actually sought him out the most at first.

 **"** Don't you ever talk? You know, make polite conversation just to put people at ease?"

 **"** You mean that I should remark upon the weather before I cut off a man's head?"

 **"**... Never mind," he decided.

He startled at the muffled laughter behind him. Leliana pressed her lips in an effort to suppress her laughter while Zevran snickered. He found that instead of intimidating them, his curt replies only seemed to goad them all towards more familiarity. The elf and the dwarf especially enjoyed ribbing him, followed closely by the bard.

 **"** I understand that there are elves in the Qunari lands, Sten," Zevran asked.

"There are elves everywhere," he noted.

 **"** Hm. Yes. Well, I've heard that the Qunari actually put the elves in charge? Over the humans? Is that true?"

 **"** Some of them," he admitted.

 **"** Only some?" He expressed surprise. "Which ones are they?" He then puffed out his chest comically, smiling at Leliana.

 **"** The ones who belong in charge. That is the way of the Qun."

 **"** How does this Qun determine who belongs in charge?

 **"** The tamassrans evaluate everyone and place them where their talents merit."

He realized the entire group was listening in on their conversation.

 **"** But elves, in general, merit higher places than humans in Qunari society?"

 **"** Some of them."

Zevran tossed his hands up in the air.

"Back where we began. It's like talking to a water wheel."

Leliana stepped between them, an inquisitive expression on her face.

 **"** Are there Qunari bards?"

 **"** Why wouldn't there be?" He furrowed his brow.

 **"** I don't know." She smiled, peering back at the others. "You don't seem like very musical people to me."

 **"** You base this on me? I am a soldier. The antaam does not do battle with lutes."

It was irritating.

"If you pay attention, Sten actually has a sense of humor. But I dare you to go find it," Zevran joked.

"Why do you speak of me as if I were not here?" he complained.

* * *

The sarebaas' provocations were of a different ilk, though. He often found her admiring him, her eyes lingering over his arms or his chest anytime he bared them. She had started joking about it, taking advantage of his indifference. Although she only did so when she had an audience, he did not think she was being entirely innocent.

"So have you changed your mind, Sten? I dream about you and I, if you must know."

"You would, even were I interested in a small thing like you," he mentioned dismissively. "The Qunari act is... unpleasant." It wasn't a complete lie. He had mixed feelings about presenting himself to the tamassrans.

" Unpleasant? Unpleasant how? Now I really am interested." Her bright green eyes flashed vivaciously. He trudged ahead.

" Deadly," he exaggerated.

"And what if I didn't mind? I enjoy a little... animation," she offered suggestively. Both Zevran and Oghren chuckled and catcalled lightly behind them. He caught himself turning his head slightly, trying to gauge Livia's reaction. She marched further back, close to Wynne, who appeared to be moving with some difficulty.

"You'd be less animated afterward."

"It sounds as if I am arousing your passions already, my dear Sten." She eyed him sultrily. When she acted like that—especially like that, he suspected her interest was in earnest. It unsettled him, first because he had no intention to pursue it and second because she was right: he couldn't help being aroused by her flirtatiousness. He would rather not be assailed by those urges when he was among those bas and facing a Blight, of all things. He was trying his best to suppress those inconvenient stirrings.

"Parshaara!" he complained. "Why do you pester me?"

"Because t'is amusing, that is why," she laughed, pleased at his touchiness.

"Morrigan, Morrigan, you should let me take care of such matters for you. You don't have the constitution to handle such a manly man!" Zevran cheered, clenching his fist.

"I don't need you telling me what I can or cannot do," she stated haughtily. "And regarding your offer: no." She pounded her staff over the ground ahead and pulled up farther away from them, falling into step with Bodhan's cart.

"I think she adores me," Zevran winked. "She's just a little overwhelmed, is all. She was raised in a bog, after all—I can quite overlook her rough edges…for the curvier ones," he observed lustily. Leliana pat his shoulder feigning a look of pity.

"I don't recommend you push your luck, unless you think you'd enjoy spending the rest of your life as a frog. Actually, you might not even notice the difference," she huffed, walking ahead. She passed Morrigan and surprised Alistair, who was leading them while consulting between two different maps.

Zevran grinned widely and arched an eyebrow.

"Like a charm," he muttered.

"Until she gets sick of it and decides to bestow her affections on the pike-twirler instead," Oghren warned him. "You are pushing your luck."

"I know, I know," he sighed happily. "But just a little more until I get her to the right point…"

Sten peered at both men.

"What is this about?"

Zevran cast him an assessing glance, trying to determine whether or not he was going to explain his machinations further.

"All right, my mountainous friend, allow me to elaborate: I am…most interested in…How shall we put it? Establishing an intimate rapport with our charming bard," he concluded. Oghren grinned while scratching his bearded cheek. "For the past few weeks we have been spending plenty of time together and I think she and I have grown closer, but not quite as close yet as I would like."

He stared at the redhead, who was chatting quietly with Alistair.

"I don't want to be off-putting and make an overture that will be rejected, so I am taking my time, looking for signs that perhaps it is time to make my move."

Sten looked perplexed.

"Why would you want to change her mind if she doesn't want to engage in the act with you?"

"It's not that she doesn't _want_ to…she doesn't _know_ if she wants to…Or rather, I think she wants to—Honestly, who wouldn't?" he declared smugly. "But she doesn't know if she _should_. That's a whole other issue. I wouldn't waste my time otherwise. That would be pathetic."

Zevran glanced backwards. Further back, Livia had placed Wynne's arm over her shoulders to offer her support and Gunther trotted alongside them.

"Pathetic…Like pining over our fair Warden," he stated wistfully. "Now she... she wouldn't give me the time of day."

Sten raised his head, alarmed.

"The Warden?"

"Mm," Zevran mused, turning away at last. "I have a weakness for women who can beat me at my own games."

"Or beat you. Period," Oghren teased.

"Oh, especially that!" the elf cracked a half grin. "But she gave me no openings. Very temperate our Warden, for someone so young," he stated, suddenly growing more serious.

Sten didn't know what to make of the strange sensation that overcame him: the mild panic that subsided and was gradually replaced by a sense of satisfaction.

 _Good. It would be foolish of her; the elf would not be a wise choice._ He'd barely formed the thought when he grunted, displeased at himself. _Vashedan! What do I care about any of this?_

"Wait until I tell Leliana she is second best…" Oghren taunted.

The elf's arm shot out and grabbed the dwarf in a headlock.

"You will do no such thing," he sing-songed in a warning tone while flashing them a dangerous smile.

They scuffled around playfully, eventually breaking apart. Zevran smoothed out his clothes.

"Besides, she isn't second best. She and I make more sense. We have much in common! We both hail from big cities…We are both trained in similar arts…to perform the same kinds of deeds…Also, I like a real redhead. People say it's not true, but I can ascertain that there is something fiery in their natures…"

"That is nonsense," Sten interrupted.

Zevran shrugged.

"Perhaps. But my thinking so doesn't hurt, does it?" He continued staring, his expression softening. "Leliana is very unique… sweet. It is rare that someone like her, who has seen and been ordered to perform so many ghastly deeds is still able to preserve such kindness and gentleness. She reminds me of someone I once knew in Antiva," he began. They all fell silent. He gazed down at the ground. "Ah, I won't make the same mistake twice."

Oghren snorted.

"Listen to you…Sound like one of those sappy troubadours busking around whorehouses."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment, because I know that is probably the only bit of culture you have ever amassed in your inebriated life!" Zevran pointed at him.

Both men erupted in laughter while Sten pressed his lips together.

"And you," Zevran resumed, tapping him enthusiastically on the arm. "Do you have any plans on taking Morrigan up on any of her offers?"

Sten's eyes narrowed.

"No."

"I don't think she is joking about it, either!" Zevran insisted. "I think it would be worth the risk of being incinerated, stabbed, or pulverized…"

At Sten's silence, the elf drew closer.

"Say, you aren't even the slightest bit interested?" he wondered.

"It would not be a good idea."

"These things seldom are," Zevran agreed, "But most people only do their regretting after the fact." He had huddled even closer, conspiratorially. The three of them moved together at an even pace. "So…I am curious!"

"Yes, you are," Sten grumbled.

"How do these matters work for you people?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know…who takes care of your 'defransdim'," Zevran insinuated.

Sten turned to look at him, surprised at hearing such a familiar word from the elf's lips.

"His _what_?" Oghren puzzled.

Zevran laughed at Sten's furrowed brow, terribly pleased that he had succeeded in discomfiting the Qunari.

"I've met a few Qunari in Antiva you know. Not much for conversation but some of them were quite easy on the eyes." His lips quirked into a grin.

"Those are not Qunari," Sten explained.

Zevran offered him an incredulous, impertinent expression.

"No? They are what then, very large dwarves with comical accents?"

"They wear the faces of Qunari but they are Tal'vashoth, fiends of Seheron. They have abandoned the Qun."

"Which brings me back to my original inquiry! They must have some big defransdim to attempt such a thing, no?" he winked.

"What the hell are you both going on about? What's a dee-whatever!"

"Balls," Zevran stated, punctuating the word with his finger in the air.

"That's not correct," Sten interrupted.

Zevran turned to face him, a bit deflated.

"No?"

"It includes more than that—" Sten began to correct him.

"The entire area? I see." Zevran inhaled deeply as his eyes followed Leliana walking further ahead. "So you never answered me, my monumental friend, how does one go about this business of seduction among your people?"

Sten was pleased he could give them a simple reply.

"We don't. At least, not like you people. We don't waste time and energy."

Zevran let out an exaggerated, strangled cry that made the others all turn around to see what the commotion is all about.

"And here I was, ascribing all kinds of lascivious interpretations to the phrase 'conquered by the Qunari'! Do not take this personally, Sten, but I hope your plans to expand your borders fail. I would simply _die_ under the Qunari."

"There you have it, elf," Oghren chortled. "Make sure you're not the one under a big Qunari, then." He winked.

"Are you telling me your people don't have sex for pleasure?"

"They do. But then there are other matters of greater importance," he told him patiently.

"But…I don't understand." Zevran rubbed his head in stupefaction. "Here you are, all gorgeous specimens of physical perfection…and you are telling me there is no seduction, flirtation, entanglements, liaisons, affairs, trysts…"

"It was too good to be true!" Oghren laughed. Whether he was amused at what he had just learned or at the elf's dramatic reaction, Sten wasn't sure.

"There are—" Sten began cautiously.

"A-ha!" Zevran cheered, pleased.

"But it is not common. We are a rational people."

"No wonder the Tal-Vashoth take their defransdim elsewhere!" he concluded. "Such a waste!" He tsked Sten.

Oghren tilted his head at them, as if having a sudden realization.

"I'm thinking maybe there is something to be said about not dealing with flowers and writing stupid love letters—"

"Or bathing," Zevran added, rolling his eyes.

"Say what you want, but it must be nice just having a pleasant evening and simply being able to walk away the next day."

"Highly overrated! It's only thrilling if there are arms wrapped around your legs the next morning begging you not to go, or a small army chasing you out a bedroom window to the gate, or—"

"We get the picture," Oghren stated dourly. "I like simple. Tell me more, Sten."

Sten explained briefly about the tamassrans.

"Hmm…So you can go to a house filled with women who will pleasure you for as long as you need them to?"

"He he! The elf would never leave. He'd have to set residence there."

Zevran shot Oghren a peevish look.

"We have those in Antiva, too. Many. I grew up in one. So, basically: whorehouses."

That was not right.

"No. There is no money exchanged. And the tamassrans decide with whom you can lie. And they are respected…revered."

"Well, depending on what talents one has back in Antiva City, she or he is revered, too…But I digress…The respect bit is something most definitely not afforded to them. I think they would like the idea of working for the Qun, except for the no money part," Zevran decided.

"It's not the same," Sten stated.

"I, for one, wouldn't mind having a tamassran pick me a pretty miss for the evening." Oghren nodded.

Zevran snorted.

"What pretty miss? They'd have to stick a wig on a rock for you to woo. Who in their right mind would—" But before he could finish, Oghren let out a low roar and charged towards him. Zevran quickly scurried ahead to escape the dwarf's wrath, an impish grin frozen over his lips.

Sten exhaled deeply as the two men ran off, the dwarf in heated pursuit. Zevran ran swiftly, hooking his arm around Leliana's waist once he reached her. He turned her around, thrusting her forward to act like a barrier between them. The three hooted, cursed, and laughed further ahead while Alistair glared disapprovingly.

 _It wasn't the same_ , he repeated to himself. He'd read about the whorehouses in different stories, a place where all men became equal in their base pursuits and intrigue was hatched, secrets acquired, and fortunes made or squandered.

 _Not so different_ , the nagging thought insisted. Tamassrans manipulated the bloodlines, raised the children, and decided their fates. Many would argue that they were the true rulers of the Qunari.

But at the end of it all, didn't both manipulate power and offer an illusion?

He adjusted his pack over his shoulders, a sullen expression settling over his face. Night was falling quickly, the last bit of sun fading and shrouding them in a bluish light. He risked a glance over his shoulder and noticed that Livia and Wynne had fallen back considerably. Livia had taken Wynne's pack in her hand, while offering the mage support with her shoulder. She moved slowly, shuffling forward at a pained pace while Wynne winced slightly with each step.

* * *

Livia could only think of making camp. Every bit of her body ached. Even muscles she did not even know she had. Her heavy pack weighed her down enough—Wynne's felt like an anchor. But Wynne had sustained an injury that had gotten progressively worse. She was certain the mage had the remedy for it among her many tinctures, poultices, and balms, but she would need to stay off her feet…and she was stubbornly unwilling to stop until they made it to their next stop.

 _For an older woman, Wynne is remarkably strong_ , Livia thought as the arm draped over her gripped her shoulder tightly. Gunther walked ahead, scurrying off to sniff at something or another before rejoining them. She lost herself in thought, focusing on making it through that last mile or so, when she became aware of an imposing presence beside her. She raised her head, startling upon finding Sten by her side.

"You scared me!" she chastised him.

Without a further word, he wrested Wynne's pack out of her hand. He placed it over his free shoulder, the one opposite his sword's sheath, a tangle of straps crossing over his own pack's straps. He held still for a moment, as if adjusting his center of balance, and then turned to scoop Wynne up into his arms.

"What are you doing?" the mage cried, half terrified, half amused.

"Carrying you until we get to camp," he stated.

"I suppose it will have to be all right," Wynne decided. "I was going too slowly and holding everyone back," she apologized.

"You are wounded," he said simply.

Livia adjusted her own pack, relieved.

 _Look at that_ , she marveled, staring as the two packs bounced ahead of her. _It's nothing to him. Nothing causes him to falter, does it?_

She followed them, Gunther picking up his pace as he sensed her moving with greater urgency.

"Show-off," she uttered with a faint grin towards the back of Sten's head, his braided white hair tied up neatly.

"No. You are the show-off, trying to do this all alone," he scolded her. "I am only doing what I am capable of doing."

"Sometimes we do not know what we are capable of doing until we try to do it," she argued.

"And sometimes you fail."

"That's not fair!" she cried. "Even failures have something valuable to teach us!"

He lowered his eyes and glanced at the trail stretching before them. His expression softened. He could always count on her indignant reactions. For some reason, coming from her, he found them...pleasant.

"We must go faster. Stop complaining and walk, or I will carry you as well," he threatened.

He listened serenely as she huffed and muttered ineffectively, walking closely behind him. He was jolted out of the moment by Wynne, who chuckled softly.

 **"** Why do you keep looking at me like that, mage?"

 **"** I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to stare. I've never seen you with such an expression before.

 **"** You can blink once in a while. I'll still be here," he mumbled, focusing on the trail ahead while reassured of Livia's proximity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sten has some really witty dialogue. A lot of people don't take him in their party and miss out on a lot of his great banter. I incorporated some of the dialogue from the game here: his exchange with Alistair on politeness, Zevran on the leadership of elves and later on Tal Vashoth, Leliana on bards, Morrigan on sex, and finally, Wynne, on why she is staring at him (slightly edited here).


	8. To Rival Even the Stars

"Accept everything just the way it is."

 _The Dokkodo,_ Musashi

* * *

The desolate ruins provided the group with an appropriate campsite for the evening.

"Tevinter?" Alistair wondered, peering at the dilapidated columns surrounding the rectangular pool of water."

"Not at first glance," Morrigan noted, her fingers grazing the damaged mosaic along the wall, the stone masonry exposed over the broken surface. The once brightly colored tiles had faded over time, as indicated by the hints of earthy red and ochre hues. Vines encroached on the remains of what appeared to be some kind of designated area for ablutions. "Tevinter often appropriated these old temples. They knew the Elvhen always chose places of power to build temples and other significant loci," she explained, pausing before a brazier.

With a wave of her hands, a vivid green flame burst forth from the dank bottom.

"They could appreciate arcane forces," she announced with a shrewd grin.

Sten backed away instinctively. If he disliked sarebaas, he disliked magical ruins and mysterious artifacts even more.

"What do you suppose this place actually _was_?" Leliana marveled, looking around in awe.

"Somewhere where they cooked elves for dinner: this water is _hot_ ," Zevran remarked, swiping his hand over the misty surface of a large pool.

"They built this over a hot spring." Wynne approached the edge of the placid surface marred only by a gentle current. "Look, the heat ensures it remains quite pristine despite its age."

"Ooh! Just like you, Wynne," Zevran flirted. The others groaned.

They all stood admiring it, except for Sten. He was ready to turn around and head back, as far away from the ruins as he could get. Such places were known to be filled with traps, wards, and triggers to summon otherworldly keepers.

"Can you think of one reason as to why we shouldn't go in?" Leliana ventured. "I think this hot spring would do wonders for my poor tired muscles." She stretched, as if to prove to the others how stiff she was. Zevran edged closer to her.

"I, too, could do wonders for your—"

"Give it a rest," Alistair interrupted. "How can we be sure it is safe to linger here?" He peered about warily.

"Do you sense anything awry?" Morrigan wondered.

He admitted he didn't.

"Then t'is safe to assume that any guardians and spells cast to protect this place have long faded into oblivion," she concluded. "I sense power here…but nothing foreboding."

Alistair was not convinced.

"That's what you said about the Brecilian Forest and let's not forget how THOSE ruins turned out."

She frowned.

"I sense power—not the intent of those wielding it. This place is steeped in magic. Now whether or not there are other beings that could harm us skulking about…I'll let your Grey Warden senses verify that."

Alistair grew serious and turned his head to and fro.

"I admit I don't sense any darkspawn here…But I can't shake an unpleasant feeling…"

"Yes," Morrigan began gravely. "I believe we all sense it, too. It is your stockings," she mocked, "which you haven't changed in several Ages."

The two glared at each other as Zevran unceremoniously dropped his pack and hoisted up the hem of his shirt.

"Well, I, for one, am ready to reclaim my birthright—I am going in the Elvhen pool. Who is with me?"

Oghren tossed his pack down as well.

"Aye—Count me in. Let's go."

Leliana balked.

"Excuse me, but who said you get to go in first?"

"First?" Zevran asked with disarming innocence. "Aren't we ALL going in? Together?"

Livia grinned as Morrigan, Wynne, and Leliana all scoffed, indignantly.

"I don't know why all the reserve. There is nothing here that any of us hasn't seen before…" He paused and directed his gaze at Alistair. "Oh, I'm afraid I stand corrected."

Alistair turned bright red.

"Very well…It's a pity. A real pity. Waste of an opportunity," the elf shrugged, releasing his shirt's hem.

"You truly are shameless," Leliana snorted.

"I meant an opportunity for YOU, ladies! You forgo the chance to observe perfection in its natural state. How can you pass on the chance to see me," he stated, flexing at the women, "and Sten," he indicated, only to find a vacant spot. "Where is that beautiful brute? Sten!" he called out.

Further down the path, just outside the ruin's entrance, Sten crossed his arms and huffed.

"And even Alistair!" Zevran concluded. Alistair furrowed his brow.

"And _even_ …? What's THAT supposed to mean?"

"And what about ME?" Oghren complained.

"Ah, yes…" Zevran continued, stroking his chin pensively. "Now I understand your concerns entirely, my good ladies. Let us take turns then."

"You know, I just want to toss you in that pool right now, clothes and all," Oghren threatened.

"Odds or evens," Leliana challenged, placing her fist behind her back.

"Ah, I do love a good wager." Zevran smiled.

"Winner's group gets to go in first."

"Mm, do you think I can be in your group then? Any group with you in it is a winner," he suggested.

"Oghren, you and me—odds or evens," Leliana proposed, stepping past Zevran.

"Tsk…I could rub your back…I'd be gentle…but firm…" Zevran continued archly.

"Odds!" Oghren cried out.

The dwarf and she cast their hands forth at the count of three.

* * *

"I have to admit, Oghren, I'm surprised you won," Zevran sighed, resting his back against the edge of the pool.

"Well, I've been known to gamble on occasion," he grinned, pleased at himself. His beard glistened with little beads of water.

"Got an odds and evens racket going on at Orzammar, do you?" the elf teased.

"Might as well," Oghren declared, rubbing his arms with the hot water. "Anyway…she never saw that zero coming!" he chuckled.

"Of course she didn't see it coming," Zevran sniffed. "You only come up to her belly button," he provoked.

"Still farther than you've gotten with her, pipe cleaner," Oghren laughed.

The two began a small splashing feud.

Alistair waded away, avoiding the brunt of it. He glanced over his shoulder and peered at Sten, who remained perched on the base of what was once an imposing column.

"Won't you join us, Sten?"

Sten remained impassive before the invitation.

"No," he replied, avoiding looking at the bewitching veilfire burning in several reawakened braziers around the pool of water. It was all too eerie for him, especially once the air grew cooler and a foggy layer of mist collected over the surface of the hot spring.

"You are missing a true respite," Zevran stated contently, running his hands over his wet, slicked back hair.

"I will keep watch," Sten turned his head back towards the wooded area where they had established their camp.

"I suppose that's prudent," he shrugged, sinking further into the water until only his head bobbed at the surface.

"Know what the best thing is about this hot spring?" Oghren began.

"Tell us," Zevran encouraged him.

"That I can pee in here and you would never notice," he joked.

Both he and Alistair groaned in disgust.

Sten ventured a peek at the water. It did look inviting and soothing, despite the dwarf's threat. He stared at the veilfire dancing in the mild breeze.

_Fear of the unknown is merely ignorance. I will not be cowed._

He decided he would venture a visit to the spring once everyone else was done.

* * *

Wynne sighed with relief.

"Aah…This spring is doing these old bones some good."

"It is a luxury," Leliana agreed. "In Val Royeaux people pay a pretty little fortune to go to the bath houses to sit in pools just like this one."

"I doubt they are anything like this one," Morrigan grumbled. "This is a marvel of Elvhen engineering. That it remains functional is impressive."

"It is a hot spring, after all. It would still be here, ruins or otherwise," Leliana shrugged.

"Livia, why won't you come in?" Wynne called to the Grey Warden sitting cross-legged by the edge of the pool.

"Someone should keep watch," she replied. "It's getting darker and we don't know what lurks in these woods."

"I do: a randy elf and his dwarven lackey," Leliana mumbled. "I'm surprised we haven't caught them trying to sneak a glimpse."

"Surprised…or disappointed?" Morrigan glided away, agitating the water as she floated on her back.

Wynne chuckled.

"See? It's a good plan that she is keeping watch."

"But you don't want to clean up?" Leliana insisted. "I can get out and keep watch while you bathe."

Livia hesitated. The opportunity for such a luxurious soak was a rare one on the road. She usually had to content herself with some tepid water in a bucket Bodhan carried in his cart to wipe herself down hastily in the cold morning as she crouched miserably inside her tent. Right then she could see lines of grime where her skin and armor met. Her hair felt brittle and dusty. The warmth of the water in the crispness of the early evening was inviting and comforting.

"Don't get out," Livia reassured Leliana. "I'll be fine. I think I might come back later to wash up."

"I'll keep watch for you, if you want," she offered.

"It's all right. I'll keep my sword close by. Besides, camp is just down that way." She craned her neck and peered past the crumbling low stone wall running along the area. A fire crackled farther below and the faint echo of conversations carried back to them.

* * *

It was long after dinner by the time Livia crept into her tent to grab a few belongings before heading back to the spring. When she reemerged, it seemed like the others were engaged in their usual routines: that night Zevran, Bodhan, and Wynne were on cleanup duty after dinner, scouring the pots and dishes they'd used, the wash water in the bucket sloshing about, grey and sudsy. Sandal sat beside Gunther, sleepily waiting to whisk his feeding bowl away as soon as the mabari finished his meal. Leliana had settled before the fire with her lute and began to strum the chords to a melancholy tune while Morrigan sat farther away, slowly leafing through the large tome on her lap.

"Where are the others?" Livia wondered.

"I know Alistair and Oghren were doing a perimeter check…Maybe Sten went with them?" Leliana shrugged.

"I'm going to go wash off," she explained, heading up the trail slowly. She was growing discouraged, as the night was growing colder.

 _Go. It'll be worthwhile_ , she persuaded herself, holding her towel and clothes close.

* * *

Sten approached the ruins warily, eyeing the veilfire with suspicion. The combination of Tevinter and Elvhen remains was unpleasant enough. The ethereal flames barely reflected off the surface of the water as a thick cloud of steam hovered above the spring. The veilfire did light the surroundings well enough though, despite its unnatural glow: it was a flame without heat. Still, as he approached the large rounded steps leading into the water, a burst of welcoming warmth struck him and he realized how much he wished to be free of the persistent cold of Ferelden's inhospitable climate, even for just a few moments. He placed his belongings close by, among them the sword he'd been using. He began undressing, undoing his boots, pulling off his tunic and finally his trousers and breeches. He ventured a few steps towards the spring and was immediately rewarded by the welcoming heat wafting from it. He waded into the pool, scattering the mist with his hands until the water covered him up to his shoulders almost entirely.

He inhaled deeply, shut his eyes and pretended he was somewhere else. Anywhere else but there.

* * *

Livia did not realize she was not alone in the ruins until she heard someone moving through the water. She held her breath and stood perfectly still, gathering her wits about her. She crouched close to the ground, worried the veilfire would give her away, and peered out from behind one of the old columns.

In that otherworldly light, with the mist floating over the surface of the spring, everything reminded her of a Fade-touched vision. It took her a few moments to realize that the broad backed man wading in the water was none other than Sten. Her hand gripped the side of the column firmly as she tried to decide how to proceed. She toyed with the possibility of simply retreating and returning to camp. For some reason, she remained firmly rooted in place, her eyes following the Qunari as he moved slowly, stretching his limbs in the water.

Morrigan had made such a fuss about what a "magnificent creature" Sten was that she had found herself avoiding any prolonged staring during their travels. But there, from the shelter of her hiding spot, she allowed herself to examine him more carefully, her attention lingering over his well-defined arms and torso. He was, she noticed, impressively built. His skin was dark, his arms and chest taut and firm. He'd tied back his white braids, their tips barely grazing the water. His large hands floated before him, gently skimming the water's surface.

 _He can kill barehanded_ , she remembered, uneasily, staring at them.

The unpleasant thought prompted her to retreat further behind the column, causing her to accidentally drag her sword over the ground. The loud scraping noise betrayed her presence. Sten, alerted he was no longer alone, lunged towards the edge of the pool, seizing his blade, and crossed the width of the spring towards her in seconds. As soon as he planted his arm on the edge to hoist himself out of the water, Livia stepped out nervously, her hands raised.

"It's only I! Stand down!" she ordered.

His expression froze at the revelation. He relented after a moment, furrowing his brow as he turned away, speechless.

 _Is he thinking I came here to spy on him?_ she wondered with mortification.

"I'm sorry," she cried out to him, his shadowy figure reaching the opposite side of the spring and placing down the sword. "I came here to bathe…I thought you had gone on patrol with Alistair and Oghren, otherwise I would not have come here. I did not know—"

"Did you not bathe earlier?"

She clutched her belongings tightly.

"No. I offered to keep watch over the others," she explained.

He appeared to pause and turned his head towards her.

"I could ask the same about you," she remarked awkwardly. "I thought you had already—"

"I, too, kept watch while the others bathed," he replied, in a gentler tone.

"Very well then," she recomposed herself, clearing her throat. "You got here first…So…Enjoy." She turned on her heels and began to move towards the steps leading back to the trail.

"Are you done keeping watch?" he asked in a wry tone.

She whirled around, peeved.

"I most certainly was not keeping watch for you, or watching _you_ , or anything as lurid!" she protested, embarrassment prickling her face.

His back was turned to her. He cupped his hands and splashed water over his face before rubbing his neck, turning his head side to side.

"Good night," she muttered crossly.

"I don't mind," he stated.

She halted.

"What?" she snapped.

"You can use the pool if you want."

She peered about, disconcerted.

"Oh. Are you getting out now?"

"No."

"Then I cannot use the pool," she sighed.

"Why?" he asked, turning to face her.

She only realized she had been staring at his chiseled chest and a large scar that streaked the skin beneath his shoulder when she raised her eyes and found his watching her curiously.

"It is not done," she stated pointedly at him, tossing back the same exasperating words he tended to utter when confronted with arrangements and situations that made no sense to him.

"What is not done?"

"I don't know that I am comfortable sharing the same pool with you."

In customary Sten style, he said nothing, but his expression shifted to something inscrutable.

_Drats, that didn't come out right, did it?_

"In Ferelden, men and women don't share…Undressed...Unless…In those cases then it is…But really, one ought not to talk about such matters…Look! It's not proper. The two of us in there… with no clothes on," she continued, flustered.

"Among the Qun the body is merely a vessel: a tool with which to perform all our work."

 _I should walk away while I can. Before I get dragged into one of these maddening "cultural" discussions_.

"You fear I would act inappropriately," he stated rather than asked.

She immediately opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out.

"That is…No," she finally admitted contritely. Sten was many things. Zevran, he was not, she smirked to herself.

"Then you fear _you_ would act inappropriately," he concluded.

Her mouth dropped open again.

"Why, that's just…How dare you!"

He continued washing himself, reaching for a washrag he began to rub over his face.

"Do your people understand the meaning of 'modesty'?" she complained. "Because that's all I meant. I am not comfortable being naked in front of you."

He swiped the rag over his arms.

"There is a time and a place for everything," he said. "A naked body is merely an unclothed body."

"Do you mean to say that among the Qun viewing a naked body is not considered an intimate act?"

"I told you: there is a time and a place. If you are a warrior, you see naked bodies all around you in the barracks and think nothing of it."

"Ah, but those are men, like you!"

"There are among us men who prefer to have a rapport with other men. They do not behave inappropriately when on duty."

She tilted her head.

"Oh. I see."

"Good."

"You are one of those men?" she asked, knowing she was overstepping her bounds. He peered at her curiously.

"No."

_Maker. Anyone else would have counted her losses and shut up by now. And yet, here by the grace of Andraste I go; I keep talking myself into these situations…_

"So how do those men act when _off_ duty?" she asked defiantly.

"Not my concern."

"I am not fazed by naked bodies either. I, too, have trained as a soldier and I recall barracks life very well," she retorted, upset that he would find her… _What? Prudish? Prissy?_ Most of all, she didn't want him to think he had an effect on her, one way or another.

"You may have that end of the pool if you wish." He pointed towards the opposite side from where he stood.

"Very well," she stated indignantly, throwing her belongings on the ground. It was dark enough and once in the water, nothing would be visible. He turned his back to her and waded further towards his end of the spring. She sat down and began to pull off her boots, all the while watching Sten for any movements that would suggest he was trying to peek at her. She moved hurriedly, in an agitated bluster, tossing her boots and stockings aside.

 _Tunic and binding…or my trousers and underclothes?_ she teetered indecisively, her gaze fixed upon the back of Sten's head. She hesitantly pulled up her tunic and noticed he had resumed the process of scrubbing himself clean, still oblivious to her; she turned her back to him and undid her binding.

 _I don't know if I can go through with this_ , she thought, her face stinging. She risked a glance over her shoulder. He remained where he was, peering out in the opposite direction. She turned around and pulled her trousers and small clothes off in a panic before plunging into the pool, eager to be out of the line of sight. Water flooded her nostrils as she dove in and when she surfaced, she let out a loud gasp before erupting in a volley of coughs.

 _That was not my most graceful moment_ , she thought sullenly. She pinched her nose and then rubbed her stinging eyes. Once the dread of being caught stark naked by Sten had subsided, she focused on how wonderful the hot water felt against her body—it was effervescent against her skin. The water itself had looked cloudy, a bit turbid earlier in the day, and her feet touched the rough sediment at the bottom.

"Are you all right?" he asked, still not turning.

"Yes, thank you," she replied curtly, propelling herself towards the edge for some of the items she'd brought with her.

She washed up, grateful to cleanse herself of all the caked dirt that had settled on her body. It was a painstaking process when she could only use a bucket: she felt better than she had in a long time. She propped her folded arms out over the edge and rested her chin on them, enjoying the comforting water.

The sky was impossibly filled with stars, reminding her of a shimmering geode cracked wide open. Just as she was staring up, a streak of light crossed the sky brightly before disappearing. She drew in a sharp breath. Another followed. And then another, as if she was gazing at an upside down lake overcome with brilliant skipping stones.

"Look!" she cried. In the near distance she could hear the others marveling at the same spectacle.

"I cannot," he stated.

She furrowed her brow and diverted her eyes from the scene to examine him.

"Why not?" she asked. "It's wondrous and you are missing—"

"It would require that I turn in your direction," he explained.

She glanced back at the sky. The streaks of light were moving at a faster pace.

"Just turn around already and look at the sky! You're missing it!" she ordered him exasperatedly.

* * *

 

He turned obligingly, cursing her fickleness. He did as she asked and glanced at the sky. He stared until the heavenly activities began to taper somewhat and he could hear the idiotic cheers issued by Zevran, Oghren, Leliana, and even Alistair each time another shooting star burst forth. He was not terribly impressed. He'd seen more remarkable displays out in the Seheron, where the nights were rife with swarms of stars.

He lowered his eyes and looked at Livia as she gently hovered close by, her head raised towards the sky, her hair fanned out behind her over the water. He took in the serene expression on her features in the light of the pale veilfire.

It was strange, he thought. Normally he noticed specifics—different qualities before assessing the whole. A strong physique. A pleasant voice. A good posture. Small details that provided him with information. But Livia…She was, all of her… so interesting. With her it was as if none of the parts could be disconnected from the whole. All of her: the elegant profile that could not be seen separately from her strong, wiry frame, and the way the hair that tumbled over her shoulders framed her face, and how her laughter accompanied her broad smile and—

"So beautiful," she murmured softly, enthralled by the last shooting stars.

He was unable to draw his eyes away from her.

"It is" he stated at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The hot spring that inspired my vision of these ruins is the rectangular pool of Hammam Essalihine, the oldest Roman bath still in operation in Algiers. Nothing like a hot soak on a cold night... You can see a picture of it here: https://farm9.static.flickr.com/8044/8127890336_9a744e9091.jpg


	9. Clarity

"Never let yourself be saddened by a separation."

 _The Dokkōdō_ , Musashi **  
**

* * *

Livia sighed.

"Moments like this help me forget everything else. Makes life feel almost normal again," she confided. "Don't you agree?" she turned her eyes to him and found him looking at her across the way.

Standing in the water like that, under the faint light, wisps of mist fluttering past him, it was as if she was beholding the image of some fabled warrior from a storybook: strong, fierce, and—

She laughed lightly, realizing she was staring again.

"What is so humorous?" he puzzled.

She peered back up at him and shook her head dismissively.

"Nothing," she replied. He appeared unconvinced and turned his eyes back at the sky.

"Are all Qunari like you?" she asked, still looking at him.

"No. There are women. And children, too."

She snorted. _Of course_. Sten was master of the deadpan, whether he intended it or not.

"That's not what I meant. Is everyone so…" she sought for the right word. "Aloof?"

"What does that mean?"

She moved closer.

"It means…somewhat indifferent. Uninterested."

"No."

"No what?" she shook her head in mild exasperation. "My old tutor would have had a crowning headache with you in his rhetoric lessons."

"I am not aloof."

"To me it seems you are."

"I limit myself to saying what is of relevance or of aid."

"All right…Then…Are _all_ Qunari like you in that respect?"

"If they aren't, they should be."

She finally laughed.

"I'm getting nowhere! But at least you are modest!"

Sten cast her a confused glance.

"I do not understand what you wish to know of me."

"Just if other Qunari are like you in how you are—in the way you speak, how you respond. In how succinct you can be."

"No," he explained. She peered at him with interest. "I do so in Common. They do so in Qunlat."

It took her a moment to groan and flick her hand over the surface, lightly splashing him.

"You enjoy teasing me, don't you?" she scolded him lightheartedly. "Sometimes it takes me a moment to realize you are joking."

He grunted but said nothing, wiping the drops of water that had landed on his face. She thought that if he were to do the same to her, it would probably result in a small tidal swell. She pointed at the sky.

"Do you recognize any of these constellations?"

He glanced back up. She had waded even closer so that if he were to extend his arm, he would be able to touch her.

"I do not."

"I think I am starting to forget," she lamented. "Sometimes I get them mixed up." She searched the sky, connecting the distance between the stars. "I recognize that one: it's Draconis."

He stared, the stars scattered overhead in unfamiliar patterns.

"My mother taught me all the constellations when I was younger," she began. "She was a seafarer and she could chart a course just by studying the night sky and where the stars appeared."

"The sky here is different. I do not recognize these constellations."

"How strange," she marveled. "Did you know the constellations over your country's sky well?"

He had. So many nights peering into the night. Knowing where the stars emerged every night was at times the difference between reaching shelter or wandering aimlessly in the Seheron. Sometimes the desert stretched out for miles without any discernible landmarks.

"Yes."

"So when you look up you don't see anything familiar here?"

"These are not the constellations I know."

"So it would be easy to get lost."

He examined her pensively.

"No: I follow you, instead."

She glanced down towards the dark water, drawing in a deep breath.

"I just told you I am forgetting my constellations. I wouldn't place much faith—" she protested gamely.

"You are a worthy leader. You will not lead us astray."

"We might not come out of this alive, Sten," she uttered somberly.

"That still does not mean you would be leading us astray. The course for survival is not always the correct one."

She remained silent, a knot forming in her throat. She could not be sure of what the others truly thought or believed: they tried to cheer her on and bolster her spirits by trying to convince her of the improbable. And it was a noble thing. A reassuring gesture of support and faith on their part. But what Sten offered her was something different, altogether. It was unflinching loyalty. He was cognizant of their slim chances…and would follow her regardless.

"Sten," she began cautiously. It was a strange thing what she was about to ask…Possibly a dangerous thing. But she needed to know. "That day…When they found you. Why…Why did you do it?"

He said nothing. She wondered if he knew what she was referring to.

"You are one of the most remarkable warriors I have ever met, if not the most. Everything I have seen tells me you are a competent and capable fighter: brave…and loyal. I have never met anyone like you. I can't reconcile what I know about you with what you did that day."

When he did not acknowledge her request, Livia thought she had gone too far. Perhaps it was just as well. She did not know that she would be ready to accept what he would reveal.

So when he began to speak—in that low voice of his, somber and serious, she startled…but listened.

* * *

Succinct, without embellishments or digressions. Sten launched into how he and a few other soldiers of the Beresaad he referred to as his brothers, had been entrusted with traveling farther south than any other Qunari remembered ever doing to report to the Arishok what a Blight was. He told her this between her questions.

 _Who are the Beresaad? What is an Arishok_? she asked with mild exasperation, annoyed that he did not pause to anticipate her confusion.

They traveled by sea, docking on the Storm Coast, she gathered, shuddering at the thought Qunari had arrived on Ferelden's shores, so close to Highever, without their ever suspecting anything. They traveled inland, already encountering smaller bands of refugees seeking passage around the Frostbacks and across the sea to the Marches. Sten was always entrusted with establishing first contact with any town they reached, while the others waited in the outskirts, well aware that their horns caused no small alarm among the foreigners. They had been traveling south along Lake Calenhad when they were ambushed by darkspawn.

Sten did not include in his narrative that by that point he could sense a subtle shift in how his brothers conducted themselves. There were no complaints, no protests, no sign whatsoever of dissent. But he could tell that despite all their training, all their preparations for the voyage, they were not ready for the hostile strangeness of the land, the undercurrent of despair they witnessed building up behind them as they forged towards the root of the evil contaminating Ferelden.

And the cold.

Relentless, wearing them down, numbing their fingers, settling in their lungs with every deep breath unfurling smokily in the desolate days they trekked across the countryside of the ailing nation. The darkspawn had emerged from nowhere—as if they'd sprung forth from the poisoned ground itself. They swarmed them even as their hands gripped their weapons and swung forcefully, cutting swaths through their ranks. One by one, Sten watched his brothers fall while engaged in fierce combat.

The only report the Arishok would receive about them, he lamented, would be the one accounting for their deaths. _We will die fulfilling our duties, with honor. Our example of valor the only thing remembered. Everything else forgotten. As it should be._

He gripped his sword and struck with greater vigor against the brittle bodies hissing and charging him.

At the end of it all, none were left. All lay dead or moribund, agonizing in the vacant field, Qunari and darkspawn. He grunted from the effort, with each thrust of his sword, darkness gradually insinuating itself over his eyes, exhaustion claiming his limbs, the blood oozing from his many wounds. He no longer knew why he fought or whom. His blade slashed and pierced through the armor and yielding flesh it found. The only sound he could discern was the thrumming of his own heartbeat, his breaths measured and focused.

Death would claim him at last and he would be found worthy, he thought, his footsteps unsteady, faltering to the side, aware of a final wave of assailants encroaching.

 _Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun,_ he recited under his breath. _The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless._

Yet, something in him mourned: there was so much, though—so much he had wanted to see, to learn, to know still. _So much_ , he lamented as darkness claimed him.

* * *

Sten realized he wasn't dead when light sharply poured into his eyes, stinging painfully. It was the last moment of reprieve before everything else came thundering down around him. All at once he became aware of the bodies of his companions being dragged away over the dirt, unceremoniously. In his feverish, blind haze, he made out faces bent down, muttering agitatedly, shadowy against the light of the sun overhead. He pressed his dry lips, finding his mouth parched, as if filled with sand, and his hand reached out beside him, seeking the comforting shape of Asala's pommel. The unintelligible words assailed him from above even as his hand pat the ground in an increasingly frantic motion, finding nothing more than dirt and rocks underneath.

 _Asala_. He'd uttered the word to them as a question at first. At their indifference, he repeated it ominously, in disbelief and warning. When they said they did not know, he had said it in anger and he'd been met with an infuriating scattering and shrill voices crying out.

 _Fight_ , had come the order from within. _Fight or be vanquished_.

He'd risen to his feet to engage them, his mind awash with the menacing images of darkspawn, the shrieks around him loud, piercing, and grating. Someone charged him with a pitchfork even though he was unarmed.

He fought them all until there was quiet, at last. Still unsteady on his feet, he sought Asala among the corpses strewn over the field. There was no sign of it, he realized, with crushing apprehension.

Asala was gone, and with it any hope of ever setting foot again in Qunandar. There would be no homecoming for a soulless warrior who'd allowed himself to be parted from the weapon that defined him. He'd lost his sword through his own fault, his own weakness. Better that he had died.

It was then, in the middle of that hopeless realization that he saw:

The faces of men. Women. Children.

He'd fought them—No. Not fought them. _Murdered_ them.

His furor had wrought destruction upon those who had sought to aid him, he realized, the flimsy bandage tied around his arm wounds coming undone, the ladle resting against the pail of water still beaded with water.

To be soulless, to have become forever marked among his brethren for death for allowing his sword to be taken was tragedy enough. But he had made it worse. He had become _dishonorable_.

He stared at the lifeless bodies around him and felt a searing pain in his chest. He'd lost himself. He'd become imbalanced, imbalanced enough to forget everything he'd ever learned; he'd put his own fear and grief before his training, his duty, his station.

 _They tried to help me,_ he realized shamefully. _And this is how I repaid them._

* * *

Not all had died. Apparently a couple farmers had fled during the fight to seek help.

Sten realized this when the militia surrounded the field, clad in heavy armor, all weapons drawn.

The sun peaked overhead and Sten fell to his knees in the dirt, not resisting, in a gesture of submission.

 _My life_ , he realized, _was forfeit the moment Asala was taken_. _But my honor was shattered when I murdered innocents._

_I have nothing else to lose._

* * *

What he had done was unforgivable.

But he had not done it with intent, in cold blood, calculating and cruel. Livia guessed that he had been delirious with fever. Not in full possession of his faculties…or of himself.

After he had told her what had happened that day, they had remained in silence in the peaceful night.

"Do you wish me to leave?" he'd finally asked.

"I think I will—it is getting late," she offered.

"No—I meant leave…as in permanently. Do you still wish to have me among you knowing what I have done?"

He did not appear contrite or ashamed. He spoke in that fatalistic tone, that matter-of-fact manner that sought a simple and swift reply.

"I knew from the beginning what you had done," she told him. "I did not know why before. Now I do."

He waited.

"Don't go," she added quickly. "It…wouldn't serve any purpose. At least with us…With us, there is a chance..."

She turned to face the camp farther away.

"I was hearing you speak and thought that perhaps we aren't that different after all," she admitted gently. "All of us…we are all seeking something, Sten. For a new beginning, for redemption, to right … everything."

A spiral of smoke billowed from the camp.

"Each one of us carries a heavy burden. We are all haunted by our pasts, by our deeds. We suffer over the things we cannot change."

"You did nothing to warrant—" he began to protest.

"I did," she interrupted him. "I survived," she said softly, her sight blurring. "I must bear the weight of that and somehow find a way to justify it."

* * *

He'd left first, offering her his parting words in his usual clipped manner. She had turned away, moving towards her belongings, already dreading the cold air waiting to encroach on her after her brief reprieve. She did, though, allow herself a furtive glance, her cheek touching her shoulder as she turned her eyes guiltily towards his vigorous shape emerging from the water, his bare skin glistening softly in the veilfire, his limbs muscular, powerful.

Something within her grew restless as she contemplated his formidable build, reminding her of the statues of great warriors that had never been as perfect as rendered by their sculptors. And Sten was as perfect as any warrior she had ever seen. _Impossibly strong_. She wondered what chance they had if the Qun chose to launch an attack on their shores.

 _What a waste,_ she thought, imagining his people putting him to death on sight. And yet he went forth, that singular thought of penance fueling him onwards despite the fact that everything he knew, everything he upheld and honored was closed off to him forever. _What a waste_ , she thought more disdainfully, his arms bent as he buried his face in the towel.

"Sten," she called out to him as he began to walk away from the spring. He halted and waited. "Where do you think you lost your sword?" she asked.

"Lake Calenhad," came the reply.

"We'll find it," she stated, overcome by a peculiar resolve.

"Perhaps those words are empty, but…thank you all the same," he told her earnestly.

She saw him walk away towards camp among the flickering shadows.

 


	10. Far Away, Not Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please note trigger warning: sexually violent episode narrated to some of the characters. Not graphic and detailed, but worth mentioning for anyone wishing to avoid such things.

"There is something to be learned from a rainstorm. When meeting with a sudden shower, you try not to get wet and run quickly along the road. But doing such things as passing under the eaves of houses, you still get wet. When you are resolved from the beginning, you will not be perplexed, though you will still get the same soaking. This understanding extends to everything."

  
―  _The Hagakure,_ Tsunetomo Yamamoto

* * *

"Is this stop really necessary? There are darkspawn waiting," Sten asked, turning to the group as they all stared at the city below, the vast sea unfurling beyond it, a layer of glimmering silver in the early morning light.

"Denerim," Oghren muttered, awed. "More sky here than I've ever seen in my life."

"Buh." Zevran shrugged his shoulders. "Antiva City is far more impressive."

"And Val Royeaux is bigger," Leliana agreed, "but I think Denerim is very symbolic; it's the birthplace of Andraste," she added reverently.

Livia surveyed the hillside. It wasn't wise to stop there for too long. They needed to set camp somewhere farther away from the main roads, where Loghain's soldiers were bound to be on the lookout for them.

"We have some…matters… to attend to," she revealed. "Shouldn't take us more than a day." She peered at Alistair, to make sure he hadn't faltered in his resolve to seek his sister. "I wish we could all go, but we would draw too much attention if we went into Denerim together."

She, Alistair, Leliana, and Zevran were to go. The others would establish camp and wait for them. They planned to enter the city with false documents the Blackstone Irregulars had obtained for them early on. They sought out grounds far enough for their camp—a sandy clearing among rocks along the coast. Below, on the narrow shore, a small port lay abandoned and in disrepair, the short pier likely damaged by some past storm, the waves slowly claiming the broken frame. The carcass of a dinghy lay partially buried in the sand, holding standing water.

It was a perfect location.

Other than Morrigan, the others did not seem to object to not going on a foray into Denerim.

"If we don't return on the day after tomorrow, send Morrigan to gather information," Livia instructed. "I don't anticipate any trouble, but…" she turned her head towards the trail they had just followed down to their campsite.

"What if you are captured?" Wynne asked apprehensively.

"If we are captured by Loghain or Howe, then…It is over. You must flee Ferelden at once. Go to Orlais or cross to the Marches. If Ferelden cannot contain the Blight, every nation under the sun is at risk. Other Grey Wardens will have to rally and you may be the only warning they receive before the Blight strikes."

"I vote we run off to the Qun," Zevran replied cheekily. "I'd feel much safer surrounded by big Qunari."

She glanced at Sten, who listened impassively, with his perennial stare of disapproval.

Oghren chuckled.

"Well, before you run off to the Qun, bring us back something good from Denerim."

"Something good as in… drink?" Zevran arched an eyebrow.

"What else?" Oghren clapped his hands together eagerly.

Leliana emerged from her tent clad in a hooded cloak.

"We should go—we will arouse less suspicion if we arrive with the pilgrims attending services."

* * *

 

Sten went about his routine as usual, fully aware that the only thing the day had to offer was a mind-numbing dullness; there was nothing much to do at camp. He would have to occupy himself with chores. He could see an echo of his own frustration in Morrigan's face once Wynne suggested they take advantage of their longer stop to wash clothing and bedding. Since the beginning he had been unable to suppress his impatience and restlessness. He would quip in irritation at what seemed to be unnecessary stops and detours. There was one thing he found exasperating about Livia: how easily she became engulfed in other matters, other people's affairs. It was as if she felt a responsibility to right all the wrongs of Thedas. He would begrudgingly follow her to complete various different tasks that had nothing to do with their more pressing mission.

"Surely you have something better to do," he complained to her once, exasperated over a detour.

"I don't expect you to understand," she had told him, defensively. "If I don't help, no one else will."

"Spoken like a true Teyrna," Oghren had teased. Sten noticed Livia's expression darken at his words and imagined that perhaps the glib comment had reminded her of everything she had lost.

He had watched her depart that morning with the others without exchanging any formal farewells. Still, as he had passed her, he had offered her a few words.

"I hope your mission in Denerim is successful."

She hadn't expected him to address her and seemed at a loss for a reply.

"I'm sorry you can't come," she blurted out. "I wish you could see Denerim. It is quite a city."

He hadn't bothered to reply, memories of Qunandar returning to him: the large domed buildings lining the city's landscape, the arched aqueducts cutting across hills into the dense city. From what he could see, Denerim was merely a large hamlet: unimpressive and backwards like most of Ferelden. Still, he couldn't bring himself to tell her how underwhelmed he'd been upon laying eyes on the nation's capital. It served no purpose.

"I will enter the city once the three of you have made it in," Zevran suggested.

"Not a good idea. You might be directed straight to the Alienage," Leliana cautioned. "It's best you stay with us."

"Hmm…Things are that bad here?" Zevran mused.

"They are in most cities," Leliana lamented. "But if you stay with us, we can pretend we are all on a pilgrimage."

"You do appreciate the irony, yes? I? The _devout_ assassin?" he grinned tartly.

"Andraste died for us all, regardless of race or métier…" Leliana continued. "It's never too late to repent," she hinted.

"Good to know! I plan on saving my repenting for the last possible moment."

"I'll be praying for you," she flirted.

"Mm…If you're going to be on your knees, I'd really rather you be doing other things for me," he grinned saucily.

Her hand flew out to slap him on the arm and he laughed.

Sten feigned wresting a tent stake from the arid rocky ground as they left, but raised his eyes surreptitiously to watch Livia disappear into the distance.

He wished he were going as well. He didn't like the idea that something might go wrong and they would end up captured and executed. Like the good leader she was, she had laid out a contingency plan. He had learned under the Qun that all of them were expendable. It was sometimes the price of performing a duty well. It was a risk—a risk worth undertaking if one went forth confident in the knowledge that whatever void was left behind would be quickly filled by someone as capable, as competent, and as ready.

And yet, when she took off that morning, it was as if all the cold of Ferelden had settled in his stomach. He didn't like that plan. He didn't like that course of action. But at the same time, he couldn't articulate why. She was taking all the required precautions and would not be staying long in the city.

 _What is this_? he wondered, peeved, assailed by thoughts that taunted him: that they would not return by the appointed time, that Morrigan would have to set off and reappear bearing news of their demise, that something would go wrong.

That she would not return.

He passed the day going through empty motions: helping with minor tasks around the camp and later on surveying the dismal shore. Far from distracting him, the busywork only caused the odd sense of foreboding to increase. One day weighed like an interminable time frame and he felt his spirits sink as he wondered how he would succeed in occupying himself usefully and productively.

And with it, something else: an irrational expectation that she would reappear at any moment, despite the fact she was miles away at that point. He understood it was completely senseless to glance at the trail leading into the camp as often as he did, as if she were going to materialize on the spot merely because…He willed it?

 _Why do I will it?_ he puzzled. _Because it would be best if she were here_ , he concluded.

He did not dare probe deeper as to why.

* * *

 

 _A brothel_ , Livia blinked.

Of all the places she had traveled to, all the hovels she had cast her bedroll in for the night, the Pearl was the one that was unnerving her the most. A gaggle of women laughing boisterously entered the room, clad in colorful and revealing garb. She and Alistair turned slightly to watch the women drape themselves suggestively over the men and women assembled around the bar, the general mood in the room growing more unruly. One woman with tightly wound curls grinned at them both and passed their table sultrily, dragging her fingers over Alistair's shoulders. Livia couldn't help smiling sympathetically at him as his cheeks flushed a deep crimson. At a table across them, Zevran was engrossed in conversation with someone he had introduced to them as an old acquaintance— a Riviani ship captain called Isabela. Nearby, still wearing her hood and surveying the room discreetly, Leliana conferred with contacts of her own. Livia peered down at the sign she had torn off a wooden post at the market: "Don't believe the lies! Friends of the Grey Wardens assemble. The hidden pearl holds the key to resistance. The griffons will rise again."

The Blackstone Irregulars operative Livia had met with did not seem to know anything about such 'friends.' He cautioned them to be on their guard, but suggested that the proprietor of The Pearl, Sanga, was as trustworthy as someone whose livelihood depended on all-around bonhomie and neutrality could be.

"Perhaps we should leave?" Alistair said in a high-pitched voice once he realized the true nature of the establishment.

"It's actually very clever: the best way to hide things well is to hide them in plain sight," Zevran remarked, his spirits livening at the sight of women in different states of undress beckoning at them playfully.

 _All these patrons are in their element_ , Livia thought, watching a group of burly men laugh raucously at a table nearby. A slender elf sat across one of the men's laps, arms draped over his shoulders, nuzzling the man's neck provocatively. Livia averted her eyes from the scene when she noticed the man's coarse hand cup the elf's crotch with a lusty laugh; she didn't realize until that moment that the comely elf was not a fair maiden, but a young man dressed in a scarlet dress and wearing heels of a vertiginous height.

"Alistair," she began, in her steadiest voice, "fetch us some ale. I am parched," she lied, swishing the half full tankard she had been nursing since she'd arrived. It would be good for him to stay occupied and distracted, she figured.

The whole day had been a complete disaster.

Somehow she had been drawn into the power struggle earlier in the day between Hawkwind senior and junior, she grimaced. She was not averse to a little rule bending, given who was in charge of the rules those days, and sympathized with Raelnor's odd policy of honor-among-thieves. Taoran's head was awash with the lawless and ruthless history of the Irregulars in the days of yore. He had expressed frustration with his father, calling him out for what he perceived was hypocrisy.

Livia exhaled heavily. She was quite grateful to the Irregulars; they had offered a helpful network when everything around them seemed to crumble. That they would impose on her to decide the course of their leadership was disappointing, to say the least. And that a son would take a contract out on his own father disgusted her.

"My dear Warden," Zevran had chuckled knowingly, " why are you so surprised? I have seen it all. Blood may be thicker than water, but who cares about something as common as water when there is power and wealth to be attained?"

"Aren't you just a fountain of wisdom today," Leliana had quipped, annoyed at how he flirted wantonly with the barmaids.

On top of that there was Alistair's disastrous meeting with his sister, Goldanna.

Nothing seemed to be going Alistair's way. She had seen, first hand, how the demons had taken advantage of his longing for a family when they were dreaming in the Fade. Alistair's hopes had been dashed from the moment he was confronted with his bitter half sibling—a woman whose tired demeanor hardened when Alistair revealed who he was. She blamed him for their mother's death and she blamed him for how her silence, over the fact that Alistair had been sired by the king, had been bought for the price of one meager coin. Her mouth turned down in an ugly grimace as she informed him of how it was his fault that she had been turned away from Redcliffe Castle, penniless and orphaned.

"Alistair, let's go," Livia had finally intervened, mortified for Alistair, who had quietly suffered the litany of complaints and accusations the harpy had hurtled at him. How could she blame him for choices his mother and Maric had made? If anything, his life was just as affected. He was innocent.

"I don't know why you came and what you expected to find! But it isn't here! Now get out of my house, the both of you! the woman protested, the wail of a small child piercing and shrill in the chaotic one bedroom hut.

She had not interfered when Alistair offered her a pouch of gold. She had even looked away when Goldanna seized it and then callously told him to leave without as much as a thank you. She could see the yearning in Alistair's eyes as he contemplated the unwashed children peering out from behind a curtain partitioning the room. Nieces, nephews: a semblance of the elusive family.

Outside, Alistair had paced around the market with Livia close by. She watched the vendors apprehensively, worried about arousing suspicion. Alistair's grief made him less guarded.

"That shrew is my sister? I can't believe it!" he bemoaned loudly, attracting sideway glances.

He had gone on about how he had expected something more, something…better.

"I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question…Isn't that what families are supposed to do?" he went on without pause, upset and flustered.

They had talked for a long time, wandering down the streets until it was time to rendezvous with Zevran and Leliana again.

If anything good had come of their conversation it was that he seemed more amenable to her proposition that he should seize upon his birthright and become king.

"Everyone is out for themselves," she reminded him afterwards. "You should learn that."

"Yes," he agreed despondently. "I suppose you are right."

She couldn't bear his crestfallen expression, though. He moped for the rest of the day.

"Alistair," she called out to him later. "When I said 'everybody' I didn't mean those who care for you, your friends—like me." It was a weak attempt to mollify him. He smiled at her wanly and uttered some perfunctory thanks.

Livia gripped the parchment and remained on the lookout for Sangha.

Was it too much to hope that the wretched day could still be salvaged? That they had found, in fact, an active resistance inside Denerim that would provide them with support?

* * *

 

It had been too much to hope for.

 _A total, resounding disaster_. Livia swept her hair away from her face as she contemplated the carnage in the elegant bedroom. She had been ushered towards the quiet hallway, passing lush floral arrangements, their odor sweet and cloying. Once they had walked inside, she realized they had wandered tamely into a glaring trap: at the opposite end of the room stood four soldiers in armor. The one who appeared to be their leader greeted them with chilling glee.

"Another Grey Warden supporter!" He indicated them to an Elvhen woman and, to Livia's immense surprise, two Qunaris. The woman's eyebrow arched and her lips quirked into a cruel grin.

"Not just a supporter, Paedan! That's a Grey Warden." They all turned to look at her. "She's the one Arl Howe is looking for."

Her blood chilled at the mention of the Arl's name. She immediately drew her sword.

"You've got one chance to surrender!" the man called Paedan warned her.

"Not today, not to you, wretch!" Livia raised her sword as the mercenaries surrounded them.

"Shaevra, Tennant, and Jarvy—let's kill ourselves a Warden!" he rallied them.

The fight had been hard and she wished she had brought either Morrigan or Wynne along to offer some explosive distractions. Livia fought Paedan, who was singularly determined to carry her head in as a trophy to Rendon Howe. She fought him aggressively, blocking his heavy strikes until she had drawn him farther away from the group. He'd been too eager, too anxious to overcome her; she had been able to deflect his attacks and when he let down his guard for one small moment, she had seized the opportunity to finish him off.

It was only once she pulled her blade out of the agonizing man's chest that she noticed one of the Qunari soldiers push Leliana violently to the ground before charging her.

She hesitated.

 _He looks like Sten: the same powerful build, the fair hair, perhaps just a few shades darker than his…and no horns_. She gaped, mesmerized as he approached her, hoisting up his weapon to strike. _This isn't Sten_ , she shook herself from her daze. She raised her sword a moment too late and the Qunari's blade managed to strike her arm. She cried out in pain before drawing in breath and swinging her sword in short, clean bursts that made him retreat. Just as he managed to raise his sword once more, he appeared to hesitate, his eyes fixating on her face as he froze in place. His mouth dropped open but no sound came out. His eyes flickered in confusion and he toppled onto the ground.

"Oh, how careless," Zevran stated glibly, as the Qunari dropped face down onto a thick floral rug. "He backed right into my daggers!" He clucked.

Leliana rushed towards the door.

"Find the Madam," she ordered. "She'll need to explain this."

Livia was still panting as she, Alistair, and Zevran hurried out into the hallway. Her arm had begun to sting, the blood oozing past the hand clamped over the wound. She stared down at the ground and took in the fallen Qunari.

 _I got confused for a moment_ , she thought glumly. _I knew that wasn't Sten, and yet I couldn't…_ She leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and sighed. _Who are these Qunari? All my life they were nothing but a legend…but now it seems they are everywhere I look_ , she realized dourly.

_A certain Qunari, at least, seems to be always on my mind._

* * *

 

They got free accommodations for their trouble. Sangha appeared genuinely concerned that her establishment was being used for such nefarious purposes.

"I had no idea, honey," she offered in a hushed, apologetic manner, her hand pausing over her slender neck in mortification. "In my line of business, as long as the gold is paid and my girls and boys are not harmed, it is bad form to ask too many questions."

"Hmm…So how did that work? At checkout time the maids never noticed the corpses, or did they simply sweep them under the carpet?" Alistair wondered sarcastically. "I'm really thinking twice before ordering any room service."

"Look, as far as I know…Well, what else am I supposed to think when a man, a woman, and two ox-men check into a bedroom together?"

"I see your point completely," Zevran acquiesced. "I would have made the same honest mistake."

"I've seen it all," Sangha retorted appreciatively. "And then some."

"It's likely they disposed of any corpses by tossing them out the window," Leliana remarked, drawing back a set of drawn dark red curtains to reveal a latticed window.

"That particular room faces an alley; it's probably why they requested it in the first place," Sangha reasoned.

Livia winced at the tight bandage Alistair had wrapped around her arm.

"Look," Sangha addressed them in a low voice, signaling for one of her assistants to shut the door. "I am no friend of Rendon Howe's."

"I thought you were neutral and gold was gold," Livia accused.

"You are right—I normally am. I am not here to judge, only reward. People come here to find solace, to chase their solitude, to drink away their sorrows and find momentary bliss. Look down on us as you will, but we provide a useful service," she stated proudly. "But Rendon Howe is not welcome here."

"Why is that?" Alistair wondered.

"The first—and last time—he was here, he was…how shall I put it…very repulsive."

"Oh? This just got interesting! How so?" Zevran encouraged her.

"I do not criticize or mock my patrons for any of their…proclivities. My employees are experienced and worldly. They have a set of talents and…interests concerning the various kinds of skills patrons seek. These are matters arranged beforehand, with full agreement and consent of both parties. Whatever brings my patrons pleasure: they have found us to cater to a diversity of needs with professionalism and discretion. Arl Howe, however, came here thinking he was above our rules. He behaved discourteously towards my employees, mocking and ridiculing them. When he finally settled on one of my girls, I had a nagging feeling I would regret it, but I reasoned, "the Arl may simply be reenacting some fantasy, something to excite himself before the act. Surely, no man in his position would risk scandal at a brothel."

"But…?" Zevran goaded her, delighted at the lurid revelation.

"I had to have my personal guards break down the door. He had barricaded himself in. I can barely bring myself to tell you what depravity he was engaged in," she sniffed.

"This ought to be good," Zevran smirked. "If we have learned one thing, it is that Howe is good at fucking up; I can't wait to hear how he fucked up a fuck."

"What did he do to your employee?" Livia's brow furrowed. She could only explain it as morbid curiosity. Perhaps, she concluded, she needed confirmation that Howe was simply a monster and that her family's slaughter had been one of many barbarous acts the man had committed.

Sangha examined them and peered once more at the door.

"When we burst into the room, we found Nanette tied to the bed—"

"That does it, Ferelden: bland food, bland weather, bland fashions and now bland kinks. How is tying someone up for some fun prurient?" Zevran interrupted.

"You didn't let me finish," Sangha told them ominously. They all stilled at her tone. "We found Nanette tied up. Howe had tied a thin sash around her neck. He was slowly tightening the sash as he grew more and more excited during... the act."

No one said anything.

"If we hadn't responded to her earlier screams, I am quite sure she wouldn't have lasted much longer."

"Brasca," Zevran replied more somberly. "There are perverts and then there are the truly sick and disturbed.

"As I said, we sanction many kinds of intimate play—but something of that nature requires a degree of trust that must be earned. I have had employees and patrons who engaged in such acts, but they were consensual and usually between a pair that knew each other very well. Even then…" her voice trailed off. "No, it isn't something we allow, except under extraordinary circumstances."

"I am surprised you are still operating," Alistair stated. "I am sure he wasn't very pleased with your interference."

"No," Sangha agreed, her expression clouding. "But you know the saying: 'King, teryrn, or arl: everyone is cold when naked.' It is not wise to threaten someone like me," she grinned enigmatically. "I have many friends. Enough to call in favors from. In the end, we brokered a truce: he would never set foot again here and I would leave him alone as well. It was more convenient that way."

"What about Nanette?" Zevran asked.

Sangha stared at him, as if truly taking him in for the first time.

"She was scared out of her wits. One day soon after she didn't show up for work. She just up and left."

"Or so you hope." Zevran looked away darkly and Livia felt a pang of sadness. He had a soft spot for those treated as disposable commodities—as an orphan raised in a cutthroat brotherhood, those marginal fringes of life were familiar territory.

"Anyway," Sangha sighed, "what happened here tonight happened without our knowledge and sanction. Please allow me to make up for it: all the food and drinks, as well as your rooms tonight, are on the house."

* * *

 

They sorted through the belongings the assassins had left before Sangha's own personal guards did away with the bodies. They found some coin, a couple useful weapons, and a bottle of clear drink she did not recognize.

"Ugh," Zevran grimaced, handing it to Leliana. "What is this horror?"

Leliana sniffed and scrunched her nose.

"I have no idea. I prefer wine, anyway."

"It's quite strong," Alistair concluded, taking a whiff.

"I suggest we take it to our expert on potions!" Zevran declared.

"Wynne is quite knowledgeable about—"

"I meant Oghren. That lush will know what it is."

Livia sorted through the Qunaris' packs finding little of use. One of them, though, had a small journal of sorts: a soft covered leather booklet secured with leather straps tidily wound around its width. As she carefully undid the ties, she flipped through the pages finding a strange alphabet she could not make sense of.

"What is it?" Leliana wondered, crouching beside her.

"Looks like a journal," Livia slowly replied.

"Might be worth taking with us?" Alistair suggested.

"Sten will be able to decipher it." Leliana peered at the foreign writing as curiously.

"I hope it's something incredibly dirty," Zevran smirked. "I'd love to see him rattle off depravity with a completely stoic facade."

"He'd argue we're being very juvenile for being amused when all he was doing was fulfilling his mission!" Leliana chuckled.

Livia set the items aside, making her way out of the room.

"You make him sound so unemotional," she chided them.

* * *

 

The merchants were still setting up their stalls in the grizzly Denerim morning. A light mist fell over the square as the four made their way out of the still-awakening city. Livia found herself waiting patiently in front of a bookseller's display of Fereldan titles while Alistair and Leliana sharpened their weapons over a proper grinding stone. Her eyes browsed over familiar titles and paused over one particular tome.

_The Song of Ser Llewelyn_

She picked up the book from the counter and brushed the cover as if caressing memories. How often had she read that book? It had been based on the historical series, _The History of the Chantry_ , and in her opinion, had made the dry, academic tome come alive in dazzling, vivid imagery and description. She flipped through the pages and realized that she had come across a beautiful edition: complete with woodcut illustrations.

 _If Sten wishes to know more about Ferelden, this might be ideal,_ Livia thought with growing excitement.

"How much?" she asked the sleepy-eyed vendor who moved among his piles of books morosely in the drab morning.

* * *

 

"Never read it," Alistair admitted, returning the tome to Livia.

"No? But you at least read _The History of the Chantry_ , no?"

"Ermm…when you say read, do you mean actually looking at each of the words in the book and stringing them together to create meaning…or lying face down between the pages while trying not to snore too loudly?" he joked.

"It's a very nice book," Leliana stated. "I've read passages, but never read the entire story…such titles on Ferelden are not widely available in Orlais," she lamented. "But the woodcuts are exquisite."

"What kind of story is it?" Zevran wondered, standing up as they resumed their march after a brief stop to eat their lunch.

"Oh, it's a history." Livia peered down at the weathered cover.

"Is it?" Leliana turned, surprised. "I had always been under the impression it was about Ser Llewelyn and Lady Ariella!"

"Well, yes…Among other things. It's a history…and an adventure story."

"And a love story, too, no?" Leliana smiled.

Livia blushed.

"I suppose it is also a romance."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sten's complaining about their having to get moving is straight from the game, as is Sangha's addressing the Warden as "honey" and Paedan and his gang's dialogue before attacking. Denerim was always exciting but overwhelming for me- there is so much to do, so much going on. I always found the Paedan quest interesting because it's our first glimpse of Tal'Vashoth in game. The History of the Chantry is an actual series of books (see in the Codex), the Blackstone Irregulars' father-son conflict is from the game... and I detest Rendon Howe and wish him a slow punishment in a thousand different hells.


	11. Presence

"Your heart is full of fertile seeds, waiting to sprout."

\- Morihei Ueshiba

* * *

Sten scavenged the shore below their camp restlessly. He hadn't come across anything really worthwhile as he examined the damaged dock: anything worth salvaging would have been carried off-either by marauders or by the sea- long ago. Still, it kept him from languishing in idleness. There was nothing left to do but wait. If the absent party didn't return, other plans would have to be undertaken and other courses of action deployed. If he kept pondering all the contingencies, he would find himself pacing about like a caged animal. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd found himself standing at the head of the trail outside their camp surveying the hillside, on the lookout. Gunther had launched into a barking fit early that morning and Sten had bolted from his bedroll to see if the mabari was welcoming their absent members. It hadn't been anything noteworthy: some small animal scurrying into the brush. The disappointment had made him almost angry.

 _She is not here yet_ , he thought sullenly, slipping back into his tent, the morning still dark. _And_ _somehow, she is ever present_.

When Gunther began a new round of barks later that morning, Sten ignored them, concentrating instead on the wrecked remains of an old trunk firmly wedged beneath a collapsed segment of the dock. He tugged at one of the handles only to have it break off in his hand. The rusted box was all but encased in a prison of water damaged and rotted wood. He suspected there was nothing worth saving from it, but it kept him busy. The act of tugging and wrenching away brittle planks of wood, tossing them as far as he could, provided him with something of an outlet for his agitation. He was so absorbed in the task, grunting from the effort of yanking boards from crusted nails, that he was able to ignore Morrigan, who had taken her post at the top of the rocks overlooking the shore, watching him exert himself while gazing intently at his bare chest.

"Do you need some aid?" she offered.

"No," he huffed sharply.

"Suit yourself," she replied nonchalantly, never straying from her perch over the shore, her eyes trailing after him.

It was only when Gunther's barks grew more insistent and lively that he finally dropped the board he'd been using to leverage up the planks he was trying to tear out and headed cautiously over the rocks back to the camp. The others were expected back that morning and he had been trying to avoid thinking of how the day had begun to progress into an early afternoon.

First he heard the Antivan and his boisterous, cocky laughter— it was the first sign that the wait was over. Sten behaved as he usually did during such occasions: he remained at the fringes of the displays of camaraderie, observing the relief apparent in everyone's expressions. He stoically acknowledged the greetings the others cast his way. He searched quickly past Leliana and Alistair, their packs tossed on the ground, to finally find what he had been searching for. A tightness in his chest eased as he exhaled at the sight of the Grey Warden among them once again. Livia was crouching down, running her hand over Gunther's muzzle affectionately.

His eyes narrowed after a closer inspection: she was wounded. He noticed a telltale bandage tightly wrapped around her arm.

Wynne had begun examining it as he approached them.

"You are hurt," he informed her in his curt manner, standing over her as Wynne tugged at the wrapping.

"It is customary for people to greet one another after a period of absence," Livia explained with slight amusement. "Hello, Sten," she repproached him.

"I'd feel better if we could stitch this up." Wynne winced at the sight of the raw cut. "I can probably keep it from getting infected, but it needs to stay clean and covered."

Sten knelt down to look closer as well.

It was a laceration: superficial, as far as he could tell. And he had seen plenty of injuries and wounds in the field.

"Wait here, dear." Wynne pat her hand before she rushed off to her tent.

* * *

Sten's gaze was probing.

"It is not serious," he finally declared.

She glanced at him at last, a peculiar nervousness overcoming her. She had been eager to see him again, speak to him, and now that he was there, she was at a loss for words. She found herself unable to articulate anything even as her heart pounded faster as he leaned in closer to inspect her injury. Her eyes browsed over that face she had summoned often in her thoughts during her time away: the serious expression, the unyielding stare, those eyes that appeared more grey than violet that morning.

"We were attacked by mercenaries…A Qunari did this," she blurted out.

"It is not possible," he told her, after a moment of pause.

"Are you saying I am making it up?" she challenged him.

"I am saying it is not possible," he countered.

"There were two of them. Like you. The one who attacked me had no horns, either." _Where am I going with this_? she cringed.

"You are more concerned about horns than I am," he stated coolly.

"I am merely saying that—"

"They were not Qunari," Sten insisted.

"Why are you arguing with me? There were Qunari among them. I even brought back one of the men's journals. It was written in Qunari."

" _Qunlat_ ," Sten corrected her. "And they are not Qunari. They are Tal'Vashoth. They abandoned the Qun."

"Well, I don't know how else to put it. One of them looked like you—he attacked me... and I was confused for a bit; I thought he was you for a moment," she struggled awkwardly to explain. To her relief, Wynne emerged from her tent, her healer's kit in hand.

"I would not attack you," Sten told her sternly.

"I know that," she quickly added, "but that's why I was confused…It happened so quickly. I _knew_ it wasn't you, but…it was as if…" She peered at him, at a loss for words. _I would not attack you, either_ , she thought. _It's why I stilled my blade and ended up hurt instead._ "It was fast and I was confused just long enough for him to strike me."

"It was not a good course of action," he reprimanded her.

She stared at him, her gaze hardening.

"No. It wasn't. You are right. It was foolish."

He thought the words out of her mouth indicated she was being reasonable, but her angry expression and the briskness of her tone indicated otherwise. He did not understand what was happening just then.

"Then we agree."

"Oh, we certainly do! If I ever see a Qunari charging at me again, I will attack no matter who it is!" she stated crossly.

"Good," he agreed.

She furrowed her brow.

"Even if it's YOU!" She turned her head away.

"I said I would never attack you," he told her.

Wynne sat down beside Livia.

"Right now no one will be attacking anyone. Please wait until I am done," she cautioned warily.

Livia turned to face Sten again.

"I don't know if you don't get it because we are so different or because you just don't…" _Care_! she shouted in her head.

"You are being unreasonable," he argued calmly as Wynne dabbed at the wound with a clean wad of gauze drenched in one of her malodorous solutions.

"Why? I just told you that I was attacked by a Qunari warrior and I was momentarily confused because I thought he looked like you. If I hesitated it is because I, too, would never attack you!"

"I do not understand what you expect," Sten reasoned. "And your attacker was not Qunari."

Livia growled with frustration.

"This will numb the skin a bit," Wynne continued, oblivious to the quarreling duo. "But it may still feel uncomfortable," she apologized, threading the needle she had doused in the medicine.

"Forget it," Livia complained.

Sten blinked at her, peeved.

"You were attacked, were you not?"

"Yes," she grumbled as Wynne gently turned her arm for a better angle.

"And you were confused because the attacker resembled me," he continued.

She nodded, eyeing Wynne as she knotted the thread.

"And you did not understand why I would be attacking you. So, you hesitated."

"Yes," she confirmed.

"It was not a wise course of action."

She threw her head back and groaned. "Here we go again."

"I would not attack you," he repeated. How could he convey that he would not raise his sword against her? Did she not trust him? Did she not know that yet? Why would she even think such a thing? She should have struck her blade against the Tal'Vashoth without a second thought. It wasn't he; she should have realized it immediately. He could sense himself tensing, frustration seizing him. "I would not attack you," he reaffirmed more vehemently.

She fell silent and they contemplated each other.

"All right," she finally replied, in a more conciliatory tone.

 _Aqun_ , he thought. _Balance_. He was, he concluded, irrationally upset.

"Ready? This might hurt a little," Wynne apologized.

It was because of _her_. He let her unsettle him like that. Why? What was it about that stubborn, difficult bas woman that was causing him to veer off his normally steady course?

Just then, Livia let out a pained cry. Her hand shot out and grasped his wrist tightly, her fingers digging into his skin as she endured the first stab of pain.

"There, there," Wynne repeated soothingly. "It'll be over very soon."

He'd stiffened, but remained by her side, allowing her grip his wrist.

She drew a deep breath between her clenched teeth.

"Never liked getting stitches," she managed to say.

When the needle dipped again, her eyes squeezed shut as the thread tugged against her flesh.

He had seen the unspeakable in the battlefield: how many times had he held his own men down as the healer performed his duties with nothing to dull the pain? He was no stranger to suffering and expected his men to behave accordingly: with strength. He contemplated her hand, so slender compared to his as it gripped him so tightly. He was astounded for a moment that he had allowed her to do such a thing: to seek strength and solace from him.

 _It isn't done_ , came the stern warning within.

 _It isn't done..._ But the words faded and grew silent as he gently slipped his hand over hers, squeezing it reassuringly.

 


	12. Regret

_"Men honor what lies within the sphere of their knowledge, but do not realize how dependent they are on what lies beyond it."_

_The Zhuangzi _ _,___ Zhuangzi

* * *

"I have no idea what this is," Oghren decided, comically squinting into the bottle's opening as they assembled around the campfire. "But let's drink it anyway!" he stated cheerfully.

"I am sure there is some cautionary story out there that begins very much like this one," Alistair commented sarcastically.

"It reminds me of spirits from Rivain," Zevran noted, seizing the bottle from Oghren and swilling it about before taking a whiff. He widened his eyes and blinked a few times. "Cleared my sinuses all the way to Rialto," he smirked. "What do you think, Leliana?" He thrust the bottle at her.

"It reminds me of some grain alcohols from Orlais," Leliana remarked, pushing the bottle away. Alistair took it and sniffed tentatively again.

"Are we sure this is actual drink and not something used for igniting and catapulting at our enemies?

Livia observed them morosely. They had begun their trek back to Redcliffe, eager to move onwards. They would travel down along Lake Calenhad in an effort to avoid Loghain's troops. They hadn't gone very far, setting down camp a few miles away from where they'd previously been, but it was a relief to have set some distance between themselves and Denerim. Her arm throbbed where Wynne had wrapped the bandage and the weak elfroot draught she'd ingested had done little to ease the ache.

"Smells like the disinfectants at the surgery to me," Wynne sighed as Alistair offered her the bottle.

Sten had been eyeing the bottle suspiciously the entire time.

_Tal'Vashoth. Clear. Potent. Could it be?  
_

He drew the bottle up to his nose and sniffed. They all watched in stupefaction as he subsequently tipped it over his lips for a sip.

"Maraas-lok," Sten declared, standing before the campfire. "It is a decent imitation," he decided, raising the bottle one more time and taking a longer gulp.

He held out the bottle to them, waiting for the next taker.

"Qunari moonshine?" Oghren rubbed his hands excitedly. "Give it here."

"Too much for me," Alistair decided.

"I will try it," Morrigan announced, standing up and walking up to the Qunari. She gripped the bottleneck and took a swig, never breaking eye contact with him. She smacked her lips when she finished. "Not bad," she stated in a low purr. "Any other takers?" she asked, ignoring Oghren's covetous hands grabbing at the bottle suspended beyond his reach.

Livia pressed her lips together. Morrigan was showing off, she could tell, growing a bit peeved at the sultry mage's flirtatious mannerisms.

"I'll try it," Livia decided, waving her over. Morrigan walked to her, the bottle gleaming in her hand, an exasperating swagger to her hips.

"Sure you can handle it?" Morrigan teased.

Livia smirked, thinking of what she had successfully handled when she downed the chalice of darkspawn blood at her joining.

"Only one way to find out," she grinned back tartly, bringing the bottle to her lips. As she swallowed, the astringent drink seared the back of her throat. She raised a fist to her lips and coughed briefly. "It's quite strong," she wheezed, handing the bottle back to her.

"Looks like it will be just the two of us." Morrigan shook the bottle at Sten, oblivious to Oghren's protests in the background.

"Oh, just a minute! If it's good enough for our Warden, it's good enough for this assassin. Let it not be said that Zevran cannot handle his drink…or his women." He arched an eyebrow at Leliana.

"Or his men. Or anything moving," Oghren completed.

"You know, it's a good thing you are small, because you are very inconvenient as it is!" Zevran groused, to light laughter among them.

* * *

The maraas-lok's bitter aftertaste lingered over Sten's tongue. It wasn't bad, he admitted, taking swigs anytime the bottle reached him. It was the closest taste of something familiar he had experienced since arriving in Ferelden.

 _Tal'Vashoth_ , he fumed. He'd never throw his lot in with them, ungrateful wretches who shirked their duties to the Qun. Still, he, like they, would have to forge some semblance of a life outside Par Vollen…Just what kind of life that would be, remained to be seen. He tipped the bottle back once more.

"Now I know how a dragon feels before belching fire," Oghren announced, his eyes swimming as he lay in an inconsolable heap before the fire.

"You are all going to be quite miserable tomorrow morning," Alistair predicted, getting up to retreat for the night; Wynne had long bid them a good night. Zevran lounged on the ground, his head resting in Leliana's lap.

"Alistair, you are wrong my friend," the elf uttered slowly, raising his head. " I am quite miserable right now," he slurred.

"I don't know what you were thinking," Leliana cooed to him, her fingers stroking his sandy blonde hair.

Livia steeled herself as the bottle reached her once more. Only a quarter of the maraas-lok remained. She'd been careful, taking small sips, but the bottle was large and the drink very potent. She stared at the clear liquid indecisively. Before she could determine whether to pass or not, Morrigan obnoxiously snatched the bottle out of her hands. Livia made as if to protest and cast a sideways glance at Sten. He was leaning against a rock, his gaze lost in the flames.

Morrigan plunked the bottle down before him after tossing back a mouthful of drink, interrupting his contemplative mood.

 **"** You seem so deep in thought, my dear Sten. Thinking of me, perhaps? The two of us, together at last?" she provoked.

He inhaled deeply before examining the sarebaas. He had been somewhat content just moments before, the marras-lok running steadily through him, dulling the edges of his thoughts. He stared at the green-eyed woman, her flimsy excuse for a top so impractical…and so revealing. The hanging swath of cloth barely covered the swell of her breasts, revealing pale and smooth skin. She had made it a point to sit beside him all evening, often making unnecessary physical contact whenever the bottle went around. Earlier, she had bumped lightly into him, her breasts pushing into his arm and hand. Even in the shadows of the flickering campfire he could see her nipples against the fabric shielding her breasts. He could not ignore the signs of her own arousal…nor the twinge of desire she'd provoked in him. She had made it abundantly clear that should he be intrigued about bedding a bas woman, she would most willingly sate that curiosity. He shifted uncomfortably, urgently trying to suppress those stirrings. He had no intention of pursuing her. Despite all her allure—and he was not blind to how attractive she was even for a bas woman—he found himself wary around her. At first he believed it was because she was sarebaas. Over time, though, he realized he was more at ease around Wynne that he would ever be around Morrigan. There was something dangerous about Morrigan: devious, even. Sometimes he wondered why she accompanied them at all, as she looked down upon them, scoffing haughtily.

What did she want, he wondered? He would not suffer her taunts further, he decided.

"Yes," he retorted daringly.

"I... what did you say?" She balked, surprised.

 **"** You will need armor, I think. And a helmet. And something to bite down on," he mused, licking the drink off his lips. "How strong are human teeth?" he asked their group with an unexpected intensity.

 **"** How strong are my teeth? " Morrigan repeated, mildly surprised.

 **"** Qunari teeth can bite through leather, wood, even metal given time. Which reminds me, I may try to nuzzle," he continued boldly.

 **"** Nuzzle?" she asked in a perplexed tone.

 **"** If that happens, you'll need an iron pry bar. Heat it in a fire, first, or it may not get my attention," he stated pointedly, leaning towards her, his eyes holding hers with a feral air.

 **"** Perhaps it would be better if we did not proceed," she retorted with calculated smoothness.

He'd called her bluff.

 **"** Are you certain? If it will satisfy your curiosity... " he teased her with feigned seriousness.

 **"** Yes. Yes, I think it is best," she replied with exaggerated amiability as Oghren chuckled.

"He's out of your league," Oghren teased her.

"I would say t'is a predicament you are well acquainted with," she quipped, not one bit appreciative of the dwarf's familiar tone with her.

Sten was inwardly pleased with his ruse, even as he sensed the wary stares once the uneasy laughter died down. He dragged the bottle back to himself and hoisted it up when he caught Livia's expression across the campfire. He held the bottle still over his lips taking in her look of…What was that? Surprise? Dismay? When their eyes met, she immediately averted her gaze. A feeling of alarm surged through him.

 _It is not true_ , he had to stop himself from saying. _That is not how—_

He turned to give the oblivious sarebaas a peeved look. Why did she provoke him thus? To what aim? He leaned back against the rock and closed his eyes, his head beginning to throb lightly. _What did it matter?_ He did not need to explain anything. To them, he concluded with annoyance, he was merely muscle: a brute, a beast. An ox-man, he remembered, recalling all the jabs and jokes he'd endured over the past months.

_We are alien to each other._

He rose abruptly.

"Sten?" Oghren called to him.

"It is late," he explained.

"But we still have some of this good stuff left!" Oghren reasoned drunkenly.

"I am done," he announced, turning away and heading for his tent.

He could not explain exactly what had rankled him, just as he couldn't say if he was angry at Morrigan, Livia, or himself. He pulled his boots off hastily and dropped them outside the tent flaps to air out. Inside the tent, his mind raced as he removed his tunic. He needed to center himself.

 _Sleep off the maraas-lok_ , he chided himself. He should know better than to let down his guard among those bas.

The memory of Morrigan's voluptuous breasts flashed through his mind again, and his cock stirred achingly in his trousers.

"Parshaara," he grumbled dejectedly, trying to shoo the image of those tantalizingly erect nipples away. A familiar, enticing heat spread through him. How long would he be able to keep those base urges at bay? he thought impatiently, turning sideways over the thin bedroll. Qunari women, he thought longingly, were beautiful. When he stood before a tamassran, there was no mistake as to what was expected of him. There was none of that exasperating teasing. His erection pushed against his trousers, demanding.

 _Get it over with,_ he ordered himself. He was alone in the tent and just had to pull his trousers down slightly to stroke himself beneath the covers. He even began to untie the laces. He tried to conjure the memories that helped him best at those moments—the intense, physical encounters that quelled that fierce want—but found himself unable to surrender, his hand poised over the laces of his trousers as niggling thoughts intruded on the moment.

He was not a savage, as Livia was probably thinking.

He was not a fiend, he thought with a deep and unexpected outrage.

He was not a senseless brute.

Is that what she thought of him? The only way she thought of him?

He knew how to please a woman, he thought indignantly. Livia, he calculated, was smaller than the average Qunari, even if she was strong for a human. With her, he would have to be gentler, show more restraint, so as not to hurt her. He chased the thought briefly, imagining her offering herself eagerly to his touch, wanting him as well. His cock throbbed urgently and he started to tug at his trouser's laces before he abruptly pulled his hand away.

"Hissra," he growled to himself, calling himself to his senses. All of it: hissra.

Besides, it was absurd and wrong to meddle with those bas, especially in such matters. It was a weakness, a flaw of character, a distraction from purpose, he lectured himself, gradually subduing that agitation that had almost possessed him. He lay down on his back until he was calm once more, his breathing even, the inappropriate thoughts purged.

 _Water_ , he decided, acknowledging his dry mouth. His canteen sat empty by his pack and he grabbed it before exiting the tent in search of the tank of water Bodhan carried in his cart. He made his way through the camp in a sullen mood.

* * *

Livia made the decision to stumble back to her tent before she drifted off into a drunken slumber along with Oghren and Zevran. Leliana had left moments before, biding her goodnight as she propped the sleeping elf against the dwarf. She contemplated her handiwork with mischievous glee: the former Crow assassin and the snoring dwarf warrior had cozied up to each other against the evening's chill.

"I am sure I am going to get an earful about this in the morning," she'd giggled as she waved to Livia.

She was tempted to simply remain where she was, numbly comfortable. But she knew, even in the slight haze she found herself in, that she would regret it dearly in the morning once she found herself cold and stiff over the hard ground. She pushed herself up and staggered slightly to one side before taking off on a course to her tent. She cast a hurt look towards Oghren, Zevran, and Sten's tent and shook her head.

 _Why would he joke like that with Morrigan?_ He had always ignored her forwardness. The exchange had nagged her the whole evening. It wasn't so much _what_ he had said; it had been _how_ he had said it: so unabashedly. As if he were challenging her, engaging in a chase with her…That he conversed with Morrigan on such a topic at all—

 _Why not? Morrigan is very beautiful,_ Livia sighed. Morrigan commanded attention everywhere they went. Men were drawn to her and she wielded that knowledge with a smug confidence.

A sudden realization assailed her: had their banter by the fire betrayed an interest in his part? She had never seen him behave in such a way. But then, why shouldn't he have such desires? And was Morrigan, who had continuously teased and provoked him…Was she such an outlandish choice?

Livia crossed her arms, somewhat stung by the content of her thoughts. She realized that while thinking of him, she had walked herself right up to his tent.

 _This is all very foolish_ , she shrugged. _These are all grownups and I am not their guardian_.

 _But why Morrigan instead of me?_ began the intrusive, unwelcome thought. It insinuated itself dangerously without a reply.

She teetered uneasily, shooing the thought away.

_Time for bed._

She glanced down and noticed the large pair of boots stationed at the entrance. As she tapped one lightly with the tip of her stocking-clad foot, she found that it did not even budge.

 _Maker_ , she thought sluggishly, suddenly bewildered by the sheer size of the boot. She squinted down and placed her foot along it, to compare.

 _Almost double_ , she decided. _No, that was exaggerating_ , she grinned. The leather exterior looked rugged, but the opening revealed a sleek fur lining. Glancing about her until she was assured of complete stillness, she raised her foot and stepped into one boot, then the other. Her feet did not touch the toes of the boots even if she moved her feet forward. She wiggled her toes and found she had ample room. She wondered how many miles those boots had traveled since they'd been cobbled. The fur was warm and soft, she noted, burying her feet in them and sighing contentedly.

She was abruptly shaken from her little reverie by a low grunt and almost screamed in shock once she raised her eyes to meet Sten's steely glare.

"Those are not your boots," he informed her briskly.

"Right!" she interjected, horrified. "I am sorry! I couldn't help noticing them as I was walking back to my tent," she explained, her cheeks growing flushed as he glanced towards her tent…in an out-of-the-way, opposite direction from his. "And I simply looked down and thought…they are so large compared to mine! So I thought… But I simply wanted to verify! See for myself, you know. It was…I didn't mean to…" she babbled feebly. She stopped and closed her eyes for a moment trying to collect herself. "The maraas-lok might have been stronger than I anticipated," she finally explained sheepishly.

He grunted once more in a stern acknowledgement of her admission. "Is your curiosity now sated?" he asked in a harsher tone than usual.

A defiant streak took a hold of her.

_I'm tired of not understanding you._

"No," she retorted.

In her head a warning chorus echoed. _What are you doing, Livia?_

"Is there anything else you wish to know?" He crossed his arms, as if bracing himself against her foolish behavior.

"Is it true?" she asked in a softer tone.

His brow furrowed.

"What is true?"

"Why don't you show me?" She blinked again. "You will show me, won't you?"

"Show you what?" he huffed, growing restless.

"Show _me_. Don't show _her_ ," she asked.

"Who?" he puzzled.

"Morrigan," she whispered.

He sought out Morrigan's tent, pitched farther away from theirs, noticing the fire glowing by its entrance. She normally stayed up until the late hours of the night browsing through her grimoire, but there was no sign of her then.

"What of Morrigan?" he humored her, completely befuddled by that senseless conversation.

"It's not true," she confronted him. "It's not true, what you said," she insisted, to his immense frustration. "Do you know how I know?" she asked triumphantly.

He wondered if any response he uttered would matter, given her state.

"Because I have seen how these hands," she began, placing her hand on his forearm. But she struggled to find the words—words to articulate how hands that could trace the brushstrokes of a painting so gingerly, with such care would not be inadvertently hurtful.

She stepped forward, trying to bring herself closer to him, but the boots were still anchoring her feet and she pitched slightly to the side. His hand shot out to steady her.

"Maker!" she protested, annoyed at her clumsiness. She reached for his forearm and leaned on him as she slowly and awkwardly stepped out of the boots.

Yes, she had had more than her comfortable share of drink, but she her mind was not muddled. As she looked at him, and he at her, a mildly concerned expression on his serious face, one thought, at least, was clear to her—limpid, even.

Her hand glided slowly up along his arm, over the chiseled, taut flesh, until it rested on his shoulder. She sensed him tense at her touch.

"Maraas-lok means 'oblivion' in your language. You should—" he began to suggest in an effort to help her. But before he could complete the thought, she had slipped her arms around his neck, drawing herself up against him.

"Show me, not her," Livia murmured, close to his ear, her breath warm against his neck. "It is not as horrible like you said it was, is it?" she uttered in a gentle tone, brushing her nose against his cheek.

He said nothing, still perplexed as to what she was going on about, but unable to conjure one horrible thought at that moment. She felt wonderfully warm against him.

But then she stood on her toes and her lips found his.

* * *

She closed her eyes and kissed him, a hint of drink still lingering on his lips. She waited for him to reciprocate, give her a sign. But he did no such thing. His arms remained rigidly at his side and his lips did not yield to her. She might as well have been embracing a marble statue. The painful realization struck her: perhaps her advance had not been welcome.

She immediately released him and shivered, the cold air suddenly having a sobering effect upon her. She stepped back, her eyes downcast, a searing shame overpowering her.

 _What have I done?_ she lamented.

"I am sorry," she offered him contritely. "I am so sorry," she repeated, so aggrieved at her own brashness.

Without a further word, she turned and hurried back to her tent.

 _Why did I go and do that?_ she berated herself, collapsing onto her bedroll. _He respects you_ — _No_ , she paused. _Respected_.

 _What have I done_? she whispered again and again, her heart beating wildly.

* * *

He stared at the vacant spot where just seconds before she was standing. He remained rooted to the ground even as his mind raced.

He had not expected her to act that way. He did not know that she would.

"Vashedan," he grumbled in a low voice, his eyes darting towards her tent. What had she expected him to do? First she assailed him with incoherent questions, which apparently she had no intent in letting him reply to. And then she had embraced him… kissed him …and his mind had gone blank.

What did it mean? What did she want from him?

He didn't understand.

He was not familiar with the conventions surrounding such matters in Ferelden. Everything he had read and seen among the bas regarding sex was unnecessary complicated, filled with nebulous and unspecific expectations. There was no clarity, no certainty, he decided, vanishing back into his tent.

She had not told him anything, had not indicated any intent regarding such matters. What had she expected him to do?…And she had just kissed him, no less, with no warning whatsoever.

All those bas, they talked too much and said too little and what they said rarely was what they meant, he fumed. He was drained. It was not how things should be done. Not at all.

 _Blasted maraas-lok_ , he decided. Livia had many qualities, but holding her liquor was not one of them, apparently. And one did not assail someone with sexual overtures in the middle of a conversation. There was a time and a place for such things. Hadn't he even shared that much with her about the Qunari before? How did she not know? Such things needed to be clear and explicitly stated so there were no misunderstandings; otherwise, they simply were not done!

Even the sarebaas seemed to understand that much as she made her explicit advances to him.

He lay on his back staring at the pitch-black tent ceiling.

Livia had felt so warm and smooth as she pushed up against his chest, he recalled, her cheek gently brushing against his. _Her touch had been…so…_ He remained still, searching his mind until he gave up, unable to conjure the words he needed in Qunlat to convey the idea of tender, of affectionate, in such an intimate manner.

He rammed his fist into the ground, in sheer frustration.

He had misunderstood, missed a cue in that odd rite among those convoluted people.

 _That these people succeed in mating at all baffles me_. He remained awake, his eyes wide open, an exasperating restlessness he did not know what to make of overcoming him.

Her eyes, he remembered. She would not even face him afterwards. Why hadn't she? Had she changed her mind? Why hadn't she tried to tell him properly how she felt?

He asked himself at last: _Would I have welcomed it? Such a joining would be unsanctioned, unplanned, unapproved by the Qun_. All his life it had been implied that those who engaged in such unions, unsanctioned by the tamassrans, were somehow...selfish.

And yet…They existed. They happened with enough frequency— and across all ranks of Qunari society—that the tamassrans often turned a blind eye to them, rarely interfering, provided duties and obligations to the Qun were not eschewed…

All his life.

All his life he had been so disciplined, so guarded. He couldn't simply change on a whim—

"I am sorry," she had uttered in a quiet voice he had never heard from her before. "I am so sorry." She'd fled from him as if wounded, vulnerable.

"I would never attack you," he'd told her earlier in the day.

And still, he'd somehow ended up hurting her.

 _I am sorry,_ he remembered, no longer certain whose words they were.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sten's dialogue with Morrigan about having sex...and nuzzling (!!)...are straight from the game. It's pretty comical: one of the few instances where the ordinarily unflappable Morrigan appears genuinely shocked.


	13. Amends

"Persuade thyself that imperfection and inconvenience are the natural lot of mortals, and there will be no room for discontent, neither for despair."

-Tokugawa Ieyasu's Last Instructions

* * *

A general feeling of malaise radiated from the small camp the following day.

"What was the name of the misfortune we were struck with last night again?" Zevran inquired dourly.

"Marras-lok," Sten stated, gazing at the unsettled band.

Alistair and Leliana seemed to be reveling in Zevran, Oghren, and Morrigan's wan faces that morning. Alistair gleefully rattled his spoon in a tin cup as he stirred his tea, intentionally oblivious in face of the murderous glares he was targeted with.

"Ah, yes. Marras-lok. I believe that means 'Stampede of Ogres' in Qunarish." Zevran smacked his lips, discomfited.

"Qunlat," Sten snapped. "And it does not."

There was still no sign of Livia.

"There's still some left!" Oghren announced to groans. Morrigan scoffed loudly at him. "What's that for?" he scolded her. "Don't blame me if you don't know how to drink and end up shitting fire bolts."

"Let us never speak of this again." Zevran proposed.

"I'm worried about Livia," Alistar indicated with a head tilt. "I have never known her to sleep so late."

Sten clenched his fists impatiently.

"We should be packed and moving out," he complained, agitated.

His comment was met with light laughter.

"Ah, yes, Sten…Hangovers are for mere mortals. Why don't you go awaken our fair Warden? Make sure you bang some pots together! I am sure she will appreciate it!" Zevran joked, allowing himself to fall across Oghren's lap.

"What are you doing?" Leliana asked in bewilderment.

"Don't think I didn't notice how you foisted me off on Oghren last night? But did you know that your little plan backfired?" he teased, cozying up to the confounded dwarf. "He is surprisingly…" Zevran paused, searching his ruddy face. "Huggable, no?"

"Now you're making me nervous," Oghren declared. "We're all sober now."

"Don't worry—I'll be gentle," Zevran teased, settling alongside him and offering Leliana a sour little grin.

Sten stared at the scene: Zevran lay in that provocative pose, seeking to…what? Get a reaction from Leliana. And there was Leliana, as well, casting him all manner of coy looks while she said nothing.

 _Baffling_.

"Idiots," he muttered.

* * *

When Livia finally did leave her tent, she was ready for departure. She wore her armor and issued orders with accustomed authority. When she finally addressed Sten, her voice did not waver and she did not flinch before his scrutiny.

At first he was filled with relief. He did not know how he would react if she began acting differently towards him because of their...misunderstanding. But as a few days passed, the relief dulled and a familiar loneliness settled inside. He felt an unease that would not relent. There was nothing, he found, reprehensible about her conduct since that night.

And yet…

She kept to herself.

She appeared distracted.

She no longer sought to spar with him in the mornings.

When they traveled, she no longer found pretexts to linger beside him, asking him her endless questions, arguing with him, challenging his views and opinions. She no longer huffed with exasperation, no longer laughed or shook her head at his words. She tended to walk far ahead or hold the rear during their marches.

He trudged forward, a pervasive sense of defeat weighing upon him. He struggled to understand it, to resolve it despite not knowing its source.

It was a disorienting loss, made all the stranger, he knew, because one could not mourn the loss of what they'd never had to begin with.

* * *

In the tenuous candlelight, Livia read the final lines of her book's chapter. She shut the book as she finished and dropped it heavily, next to her pack. Beside the book sat the journal in Qunlat. She stared at it, finding the mere sight of it a cringe-worthy reminder of that night.

_I had meant to give these to him._

She had avoided dealing with the entire situation and it seemed to have worked well. Perhaps he was relieved that she hadn't embarrassed herself further. _No lasting harm done, I suppose,_ she concluded, at his ensuing indifference.

She had kept her distance and everything indicated he appeared grateful for it. He never sought her out, never asked her to explain herself afterwards, as he was wont to do when perplexed by something. It was as if she had hallucinated the entire incident.

When she marched behind them all, she would sometimes allow herself to watch him: his gait was confident, determined. It was difficult not to stare. Despite his size and strength, his movements, whether in combat or at rest, were elegant: precise, steady. She found him fascinating, so interesting, and for a brief moment she had allowed herself to believe that there was something more—

She interrupted the thought that inevitably led to that grotesque night: she, tipsy, standing in his massive boots, flinging her arms around him and kissing him on the lips.

She swept her hair back behind her ears and began to change into her nightshirt.

She tried not think of his rejection, but it smarted still. Once she had been the only daughter of the most powerful Teyrn of Ferelden and she had had her pick of admirers.

Once she had complained about receiving too much attention. If either her mother or father insinuated that she should consider any of her suitors, she would immediately withdraw, annoyed at their persistence.

From a future, filled with choices, to hunted criminal and pariah.

Maybe Sten had been insulted. _How dare she?_ she mocked herself.

Right then, she felt unbearably alone.

Certainly, she had forged a deep bond with Alistair; she cared deeply for him, but he was even more lost than she. He was the more senior Grey Warden, yet he deferred to her judgment despite her relative inexperience in her new role. Leliana always showed her kindness and friendship, but there was an admiration from the bard that made her uncomfortable: she did not believe, as Leliana did, that the Maker had bestowed any favor upon her. She could not look at the world through the eyes of the faithful; that imposed a deep limitation on how much she could unburden herself to Leliana without growing impatient with all the religious platitudes.

It was Sten she felt the most at ease with, ironically, for the same reasons she felt so hurt by him right then: his quietude, his sharp and objective intellect. There was an unflinching honesty when she spoke to the Qunari. Far from being off-putting, his laconic responses only enticed her. Perhaps his silence that night after her gauche attempt had been a kindness he'd extended her…and that she had to learn to recognize.

 _Regardless_ , _I can't avoid him forever_ , _hiding away in this tent every night_ , _shunning contact and his company indefinitely_ , she thought, her shoulders slumping as she contemplated the books she had avoided presenting him with.

* * *

She stepped out of her tent and surveyed the campsite early the next morning. Sten was up already, unsurprisingly, sitting with his back to her, a tin cup ensconced between his hands.

She approached him, summoning her courage.

"Sten," she called out.

He whirled around, an almost—startled?—expression on his normally impassive face.

 _He probably worries I will act irrationally again_ , she thought glumly.

"I…I meant to give these to you before, but I did not have the opportunity," she began, standing beside him. She held the books ostentatiously, to reassure him of her intent.

"What is this?" he asked curiously.

"The first one is a journal—we _think_. It was found among the Qunari—" She paused. "Tal'Vashoth," she corrected herself. "If you find anything that would be of interest to our mission, let us know."

He leafed through the journal. After a few moments, he glanced at the tome.

"And this?"

She rubbed her arm nervously.

"When we were in Denerim I saw this and I thought…Well, you are curious about Ferelden and our history and customs…And this is a famous book," she explained. "And it has beautiful woodcuts," she revealed in a gentler tone. "I thought you might like it."

"Woodcuts?" he wondered.

She blinked a few times.

"Yes."

He seemed perplexed.

 _He doesn't know what a woodcut is_ , she realized at last. She crouched beside him and reached for the book. Her hand lightly grazed his as she opened the cover, a pleasant jolt coursing through her at the inadvertent touch.

"Here," she explained. "An artist illustrated the book with these woodcuts. She or he carved them first on a block of wood, etching each line in. Then the block was inked and pressed against the paper on these illustration plates."

* * *

How could he be filled at once with sadness and warmth? How could his loneliness strike him with such strength right then when she was there, so close to him? He stared at the illustrations she showed him, but he was too distracted by a heightening tension and a deepening yearning.

"Aren't the woodcuts remarkable?" she asked him, focused on the book.

"What is the book about?" he asked.

"Oh…it's a history of sorts."

"A history," he repeated.

"Yes—it is about a Fereldan knight called Llewellyn…it's…a bit long." She smiled self-consciously. "The first chapters aren't even about Llewellyn: they're about his Alamarri ancestors…But then the subsequent chapters are about Kordillus Drakon and how he established the Chantry," she completed.

He did not say anything, but he thought that it was a most suitable plot for a Fereldan book: _a story about a knight that did not include the titular knight. If that didn't sum up Ferelden…._

"Hm," he retorted, turning the book over.

"But…it…Ser Llewellyn is very interesting: he is a champion of the Chantry. His story is very famous. And you will learn so much about the early days of the Chantry, all the hierarchy…especially once you get to the part on Lady Ariella," she prattled.

"Hm," he repeated. "Who is Lady Ariella?"

"She? She is a convert from Nevarra who abandons her life of wealth and privilege to join the Chantry. She and Llewellyn do not get along at first," she continued, smiling as she recalled the protagonists' early meetings and their heated banter. "But then…They fall in love."

Sten's brow furrowed. He faced her with a curiously intense expression.

"Is this a romance?"

"I suppose it is _also_ a romance…" she emphasized, clearing her throat.

He stared at the leather binding and the faded gold lettering on the spine.

 _A romance_ , he exhaled with well-contained despair.

"Thank you," he told her sincerely, nevertheless. His gratitude was for her attentiveness and thoughtfulness rather than for the brick of paper he longed to hurtle into the fire.


	14. On the Meaning Behind the Words

**Chapter 14: On the Meaning Behind the Words**

"There are seven emotions: joy, anger, anxiety, adoration, grief, fear, and hate, and if a man does not give way to these he can be called patient."

-Ieyasu Tokugawa

* * *

The Tal-Vashoth's journal proved to be interesting. Written in a broken, phonetic Qunlat, it made Sten suspect that the Tal'Vashoth the journal had belonged to had not been educated in Par Vollen. Among notes about meeting times, expenses, and gear checklists, it contained a recipe and instructions for brewing maraas-lok with grains found in Ferelden. As he browsed over the directions for making a barley mash, he decided the recipe would be information he would not be sharing with the others after the last fiasco. He also discovered something far more interesting: a recipe to make Vitaar. A long list of herbs and other reagents was provided. He had no idea if it would work and if the poison measures were exact. He peered up from the journal, wondering if Wynne, whose powers and knowledge of herbs and healing were impressive, would be able to orient him and cast the correct spell over the mixture.

Amid his thoughts, he guiltily considered the heavy tome sitting among his belongings.

 _The Song of Ser Llewelyn_ taunted him. He hadn't cracked open the romance novel since the day Livia had presented him with it. Livia, he decided, was as misleading as the word 'romance' itself. At first he'd thought her to be hard: tough and uncompromising—but the more he grew to know her, he understood she, too, was unexpectedly and surprisingly soft. The latest evidence of that was in how she had given in to a request from Oghren. They would be taking a brief detour to stop by an inn by Lake Calenhad where the dwarf claimed to have some unfinished personal business.

 _To the dwarf even that quarter of maraas-lok is unfinished business_. He frowned.

They needed to reach Redcliffe, but Oghren had succeeded in adding yet another detour to their trip…Probably by abusing Livia's good will.

He picked up the tome, inwardly groaning at its heft. Livia sat across the fire from him, oiling her blade, listening in on the conversation between Alistair and Leliana. Since she had given him the book and the journal, she had stopped avoiding him and they had even resumed sparring together on some mornings…But he was not convinced everything was back to normal.

He didn't want to be convinced that was their new normal.

He waited. He waited for something to happen.

He did not know her to be capricious. He wondered if whatever sentiment had led her to seek him that night had faded so suddenly. He expected her to explain herself; he had hoped she would proposition him again. Neither had happened. They seemed to have reached an odd impasse. He sat up, resigned to at least browse through the book. He hadn't gotten past five pages before he found himself grunting audibly.

"Is anything the matter?" Livia asked, taking in his peeved expression.

"I am not familiar with many of the terms used in this book," he told her.

"Such as?" she prodded.

"What is a _thurible_?" He gazed up at her at a loss.

"It is used to spread incense smoke during services," she explained, running a rag along her blade.

"I do not understand. Why do you need smoke during services?"

She grinned sympathetically as she rubbed the last streaks of wetness off the sword. Once she had placed it back in its sheath, she stood up, wiping her hands in a clean rag.

"The smoke is symbolic: it is a reminder to all Andrastians of how Andraste died…Also, there is a spiritual aspect: smoke ascends into the heavens, perhaps as far as the Veil— so it also represents the hopes that our prayers will cross the Unknown to reach the Maker.

"I still don't understand what a _thurible_ is," he argued.

She grabbed a stick from the pile of firewood and sat down beside him and began scratching something into the dirt before them.

"It's a container of sorts, usually made of metal…and it hangs off a chain, like this."

Sten barely glanced down at the etching in the dusty ground; he chose to watch her instead.

She busily traced lines and circles, fine wisps of hair spilling from her messy bun, delicately framing her face in the firelight.

 _Stay_ , he thought.

"I see," he stated at last. "And what is a _missal_ and why are people arguing about the Rite of Nevarra over the Rite of Drakon?" He needed to ask questions if he wanted her to remain that way, near him.

She cracked a nervous grin. "I did not remember how technical all of this could be," she apologized. "Perhaps this book was not the best choice. You don't need to read it, you know. I won't be offended," she assured him.

She tossed the stick into the fire and moved as if to stand up again.

"I wish to know."

She paused before sitting again, nodding faintly.

"Very well." She drew in a deep breath. "Where to begin? So, early on, Kordillus Drakon, who was the first emperor of Orlais—"

"Was he Orlesian?"

"Uh…No." Her eyes widened, as if surprised by the question. "Not exactly. You see, there was no Orlais back then."

"Of course there was. The land was already there."

She cleared her throat.

"Of course, that's not what I meant."

 _It was Orlais, but it wasn't Orlais. Why am I not surprised_? he huffed lightly.

"Back then there were…tribes. And Drakon was part Ciriane and part Tevinter," she told him.

 _Tevinter_. Now he hated the book even more. He wasn't even done with the first chapter.

"I thought this was a story about Ferelden," he complained.

 _Maker_! _What have I gotten myself into?_ she groaned inwardly.

"It is! But you have to understand, all these tribes…The history is all connected," she attempted to explain.

"I still do not understand what a _missal_ is." He tapped the book's first page, trying to draw her attention.

She stared at him, her bright eyes blinking slowly.

"Oh, Sten," she sighed again. "This might take a while."

 _Good_ , he thought with satisfaction.

"I am listening," he informed her, enjoying her proximity.

It was a strangely paradoxical book: that he should despise reading it so much, and yet be so grateful to it. It completely made sense that it would have to be a Fereldan story.

* * *

Livia approached their group the following morning, scratching her head sleepily. "I cannot remember, for the life of me: which Age came after Towers? Was it Glory?" She yawned.

"Black!" Leliana corrected her.

"Are you sure? I think it was Exalted," Alistair interrupted.

"In what Age will breakfast be served?" Zevran wondered, staring at the empty plate on his lap.

"It was Black, wasn't it?" Leliana looked up, searching her memory.

"I don't care," Morrigan grumbled, staring at the pot Oghren was stirring and that was not one bit closer to bubbling.

"Why do you need to know?" Alistair asked.

Livia glanced back towards the clearing where Sten swung his blade.

"I think I am in over my head a bit…I am explaining some history of the Chantry to Sten…Maker, it feels like I learned this all so long ago…"

"Just make it all up," Zevran suggested. "He'll never know."

"Why is he interested all of a sudden?" Leliana asked.

"He is reading _The Song of Ser Llewelyn."_

"Ah!" Leliana nodded before she burst into laughter.

"What's so funny?" Livia complained.

"I don't want to imagine the confusion…and all the questions…It's not a lighthearted read by any stretch of the imagination," she chuckled.

"I know, right? I never managed to read it," Alistair seconded.

"Of course not. There were no pages for you to color in," Morrigan quipped.

"I don't mind, though," Livia told them quietly, her eyes following the Qunari warrior as he moved between sword stances in the near distance.

* * *

Evenings were what he looked forward to the most. He thought of them as they crossed the barren wilderness of Ferelden and as they wandered through mostly abandoned villages. No matter how exhausting their days, the evenings offered him some respite. He'd wait patiently for the moment of the night when Livia would give him all her attention. They sat close to each other, paging through the book together. He'd come prepared with questions to assail her with and then asked her questions of the answers she'd given to his questions. They digressed terribly and sometimes spoke of completely different things altogether. It was not unusual for them to raise their heads at some point of the evening and find themselves alone around the fire.

He admired her efforts to answer his questions; she was intelligent, cultured, and articulate. She was well learned among her people.

"I think we had better skip to the part where Ser Llewelyn is introduced," she suggested. "It's far more exciting."

"I am not finished with the early chapters," he declared.

"All you need to know," she argued, "is that Ser Llewelyn's ancestors were devout Andrastians from the very beginning. It's important to understand how intrinsically linked the Chantry is to his life, to his perspective of the world."

"This word. What is a _surplice_?" he continued, ignoring her.

She tossed her head back and chuckled.

"I really should have picked something simpler…"

He contemplated her seriously.

"Do you not wish to tell me about your people's history?"

"No—it's not that!" she replied quickly. "I don't mind. It is actually a very welcome distraction. And it brings back good memories…of happier days."

"The Divine halted him at the _chancel_ ," he read. "Is that a separate room?"

"No, no." She leaned in closer to look into the book on his lap. "It's an area right at the end of the cathedral's nave—"

"Nave?"

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"I told you yesterday what a nave was!"

"You were not clear: tell me again."

She rubbed the side of her neck tiredly. Her eyes landed on the journal in Qunlat, its strange letters all arranged in neat rows, the writing crisp and sharp, so different from the sprawling of Common.

"Sten, how did you learn to speak and read in our language?" she asked. "You have such a good command of it." She grinned slyly. "Your appalling ignorance of what a surplice is, notwithstanding," she joked.

"I taught myself," he informed her. "Rivaini and other bas merchants were allowed to dock at our ports for trade."

"What is a bas?" she wondered.

"It is the word for those who are not Qunari."

"I see…Like me?" She placed her hand over her chest.

"Yes."

"Ah." She pressed her lips pensively. "And is it a nice term?...Or are you calling me something quite insulting?" she continued lightheartedly.

"You ask too many irrelevant questions."

"Do I?" she feigned innocence.

At his reproachful expression, she laughed.

"So you learned Common from Rivaini merchants?"

"Among others. Yes."

"That explains everything," she decided, drawing her knees up to her chest and bracing them with her arms.

"I do not understand what you mean."

"You have a terrible Rivaini longshoreman accent…"

He balked. The face he made must have appeared quite comical to her. She laughed lightly, resting her head on her knees, her hair spilling forward, tumbling over her smiling face.

How long would he have to wait for her to summon him to her again? He exhaled audibly.

"I am teasing you, Sten. You don't have a Rivaini accent." She contemplated him with a serene gaze. "Do you know other languages, too?"

"Qunlat," he retorted. She swatted him lightly on the arm. "Tevene. Some Rivaini dialect," he finally told her.

"Teach me something in Qunlat," she asked suddenly.

"What is it that you wish to know?"

She pressed her lips in thought for a moment.

"How would I say goodnight?"

"We do not say 'goodnight.' When we leave another's presence for the night, we say 'goodbye.'"

Livia sat up, waiting for him to continue, but he merely looked at her in that serious manner of his. It was amusing—she couldn't stand it and began to chuckle.

"What is so funny? I do not see the humor—"

"I'm waiting!" she complained playfully. "Aren't you going to teach me how to say 'goodbye'?"

"Panahedan," he uttered.

"Panahedan," she repeated after him.

He nodded, approvingly.

"Pana _hedan_ , he emphasized, instructing her. "Longer 'e'."

"I was never a fan of long goodbyes," she lamented with a twinkle in her eyes.

He grinned slightly. He knew for a fact that she never let her guard down like that with the others. He'd gathered early on that she was good-natured: she laughed and joined in the occasional witty banter with them all. That spirited lightheartedness, though, that she did with no one else but him.

"It is late." She sighed, gazing into the night sky.

"It is," he concurred.

They sat side by side, their shoulders lightly brushing, their voices hushed. Beside her, Gunther stirred in his sleep, making snuffling noises into his paws every once in a while.

"Will you teach me more Qunlat tomorrow?" she asked, slowly pulling herself away and standing up.

"Yes. Tomorrow." He stood up as well.

They stood before each other, a restless silence between them. It was a pleasant torment, he realized, a yearning growing within him as he acknowledged that another evening was ending. She would be leaving his side again and nothing had been resolved.

"Panahedan," she called out to him softly, beginning to head towards her tent.

"Panahedan," he called back as he watched her walk away, the moment bittersweet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sten smiles in game- he even cracks a few terrible jokes...and is very pleased with himself upon doing so. Your Warden can call him on it. He's unrepentant.


	15. Certainty

"It is difficult to know yourself if you do not know others."

\- _Go Rin No Sho_ , Miyamoto Musashi

* * *

When Sten began to read about Ser Llewelyn, it had been implied early on that the defender of the Fereldan Chantry had many enemies.

Sten was quite certain he understood why:

Ser Llewelyn had a terminal case of circumlocution.

_Mine own mistress Ariella! How doest one pretend to giveth thee a greeting as quaint as the one already did afford thee by the fiery orb in the sky itself, the ev'r watchful travelling lamp. . ._

Sten had all but missed the passage where the loquacious Ser professed his admiration for the Lady because everything the tiresome man said was uttered with the same degree of intensity and verve: whether he was remarking on the weather, complaining about dirt on his boots, or professing an oath of fealty.

"Hm," Sten grunted, annoyed, his elbows resting over his knees with the tome open over his lap.

_Oh mine own heart! I yearn f'r the warmth of thy embrace, the sweet captivity of thy slender arms. Prithee, bid at which hour thou shall allow me a moment of happiness. Peradventure a nod—No! I shall beest bold! A smile from thy tender lips!_

_This is terrible_ , he decided crankily, turning forward a few pages to see how far the knight had progressed with the Lady and whether there would be any useful insights or suggestions.

Wynne glanced up from the plate she had been chopping a few turnips on.

"You don't sound very pleased. Are you enjoying the story?"

"Hardly," he complained.

Nearby Leliana placed a large pot of water over the fire.

"It is a well-known story in Ferelden," she informed him.

He peered down at the book.

"You have read it?"

Leliana shook her head.

"No, I'm afraid I haven't yet."

"And you?" he asked Alistair, who was nearby skinning some game they had snared that morning.

"What Chantry boy hasn't heard of Ser Llewelyn? I think I was even dressed up as the man at a Chantry pageant one year, when I was young…But, no. I never read it either."

Sten turned to Wynne.

"And you?"

She smiled.

"No, dear. My reading has always been of a more technical or esoteric nature. But I always heard it is a splendid story."

He glared at them all.

 _One of the most beloved stories of Ferelden, which none of the Fereldans has read_ , he frowned. _Am I surprised? I am not._

"Is anything good happening yet?" Zevran inquired.

"No."

"What about Lady Ariella?" Leliana wondered, peering into the pot. "Ser Llewelyn's speeches proclaiming his devotion to her are some of the most moving in all of Ferelden's literature."

" _And wherev'r thou wendeth, I shall followe, like the stars followen the moon, the fair queen who traverseth the heavens nightly_ …" Wynne declaimed. "Isn't that from _The Song_?" she asked the others.

"Clever strategy," Zevran offered, tapping his head in approval.

"What do you mean?' Leliana looked at him skeptically.

"His victims are too dazed by his archaic babbling to resist his seductions."

"It may sound archaic now, but it wasn't then," Wynne countered. "I find it quite lovely."

"Shall thou sitteth on mine own lap now, oh comely maiden?" Zevran addressed Leliana with hammy pomp. "There. Did that work?"

She flung some water from the pot at him with the wooden spoon, grinning.

Sten looked around at them. They were still behaving idiotically, but he had an idea.

* * *

"Fereldan customs do not make sense," he began.

"Ah, but no, my inquisitive friend. Your questions will have to wait until your most patient guide in these matters returns from her patrol." Zevran stretched out lazily before the fire.

"Go ahead, Sten. Perhaps we can help in Livia's absence," Leliana encouraged him.

"Very well. There is a passage in the story and what transpired between the characters is not clear."

Wynne carried the plate of chopped turnips to the pot.

"Read it to us—maybe we can help you decipher—"

"No," he added. "I understand the language. I do not understand the intent of an action."

"This ought to be good," Zevran smirked.

"Now I'm curious." Alistair paused his tedious skinning chore.

"Yes—listen! This might be educational for you, as well," Zevran teased.

Sten quickly glanced towards the edge of their camp, ensuring that Oghren and Livia were nowhere in sight yet.

"It is the passage where Lady Ariella and Ser Llewellyn—"

"That's another thing!" Zevran interrupted, turning to the others. "Does the name _Llewellyn_ conjure thoughts of a dashing knight for anyone here?"

"Sssh!" Leliana censured him.

"Llewellyn," he repeated in a mocking tone. "Sounds like a name that dwarf would give at a tavern to start a tab he did not plan on paying…"

"She asks him questions, but before he can reply, she kisses him. Then she leaves, not explaining herself," Sten continued.

"Oh? That story might be better than I thought," the elf mused, leaning in closer.

"That can't be right," Leliana pursed her lips.

"Good: you agree, then. It makes no sense," Sten replied.

"No, no…that's not what I meant. There has to be more to it," she suggested.

"I agree. I think we are missing something," Wynne seconded, peering into the pot.

"Salt?" Alistair looked up innocently.

Wynne chuckled.

"No. I meant in Sten's very…succinct…summary of events."

 _They don't even understand each other_ , Sten noted. So much confusion because they all talked _so much_.

"For example, you need to explain to us what the context of the scene was. "

"I told you what happened. That should be enough."

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" Wynne began scraping the plate's contents into the water. The turnip chunks splashed into the pot. "And that is true if you are reading a report. A recipe…or schematics. You just need the facts. There is something comforting about such things, isn't there? I turn to my manual on alchemy and I know that if I follow directions exactly and mix my reagents together, I will always get the expected reaction, regardless of how I feel that day or what the weather is doing…Because, Maker knows, most of our lives surely aren't as precise or as certain. If only people were as transparent and easy to interpret…"

"People can be predictable," Zevran argued.

"Yes, but predictable is simply that: an educated supposition, a good guess. Not a guarantee." She turned back to Sten. "There is so much more that we need to know before we can venture a guess as to what transpired between them. For example: where were they? How had they been acting towards each other up until that moment? What had they been talking about before she kissed him? What did he do when she kissed him? How did she depart?..." she paused while the others waited. "I don't think we know enough about their circumstances to offer you much."

Sten's brow furrowed.

"I see. But she should have told him what she wanted from him. He did not expect to be interrupted and she was unclear."

"Because she kissed him?" Leliana puzzled.

"Yes."

"But don't you see? She did tell him! She conveyed her feelings through the kiss!"

Zevran chuckled slyly.

"Ah! But just a moment: it depends on the _kiss_. What kind of kiss was it?"

"It was a kiss," Sten emphasized dryly.

"No, no, my osculating ignoramus! There are many, many different kinds of kisses." He sat up projecting an air of authority. "You see, there are formal kisses," he explained, seizing Leliana's shoulder and planting a small kiss on her cheek. Leliana gamely played along, placing the second greeting kiss on his other cheek. "That, my friend, is an accepted greeting throughout different kingdoms of Thedas." His eyes shifted to Leliana, "By the way, we give three greeting kisses in Antiva." He began to lean in towards her again.

" _Hélas_! We only do two in Orlais," she teased, raising her splayed hand to block his puckering lips.

"Pfff…Most romantic country…That reputation is most undeserved, yes?…" he mumbled at her. He turned back to the others. "So! Perhaps she was simply greeting him?"

"She kissed him on the lips."

"Hmm!" Zevran feigned confusion. "I wonder... Was it…? Allow me to demonstrate," he attempted to slip his arm around Leliana's shoulder again. Before he could reach her, though, the bard quickly evaded his embrace and wrenched his arm around his back. The assassin yelped in discomfort as she grinned smugly.

"Those kind of kisses are more successful if _invited_ ," Leliana informed him.

"You are hindering Sten's education," Zevran protested, grimacing. Leliana released him as Alistair stared wide-eyed. Wynne chuckled quietly.

"How would one know if it was welcomed if it was never discussed before it happened? This is presumptive nonsense." Sten questioned.

"There is no clear answer to that. It is just…a hunch...a feeling," Leliana mused.

"Communication is not always conveyed through conversation. There are signs: indications that perhaps someone is interested in you." Wynne nodded.

"What signs?" Sten asked more loudly. "Such ambiguity leads to misunderstandings and mistakes. The Qunari prize clarity and directness, not this imprecise manner of conveying information."

Wynne and Leliana exchanged glances. Alistair had stopped his chore and was listening, mesmerized, as well.

"Perhaps. But if you are paying attention, there is clarity in those signs as well. Sometimes it is in the little things," Wynne began. "In how someone may seek your company.

"Or in how they may avoid you because they might be terribly nervous around you," Leliana smiled, with a faraway look, as if reminiscing.

"That answers nothing. Which one is it?" Sten insisted, growing mildly exasperated.

Zevran shrugged.

"Alternatively, they might simply walk up to you, reach into your trousers and—"

"Maker, Zevran! Behave, or I will beat you with this spoon!" Leliana threatened.

"Mm...Name when and where." He grinned cheekily.

"It depends on the person," Wynne explained, ignoring them. "Lady Ariella had probably given Ser Llewelyn signs that she was interested before their kiss. And when she kissed him, she gave him the opportunity to express whether he was interested, too."

"Interested in _what_?" Sten wished he could convey how completely maddening that conversation was.

Zevran lewdly pumped his fist back and forth a few times before Leliana's arm flew out to whack him in the chest.

"Interested in him! That she is in love with him," Leliana stated pointedly while glaring at Zevran.

"Not necessarily!" he protested. "It could very well be just physical attraction."

Wynne sighed.

"It could be."

"Which one?" they asked at the same time.

"All of those…Or neither…It is hard to say. Like I said, it is never a certain thing. But one thing is certain."

"What?" Alistair gripped the skinning knife tightly.

"One always takes a risk when revealing feelings to another. Sometimes the sentiment is reciprocated. Sometimes it is not. It can lead to much happiness and sometimes it can lead to much sadness." Wynne fell silent for a few moments, staring at the bubbling water. "Sometimes both." She smiled inscrutably. "Sten, do your people have a word for 'regret'?"

"It means apology," he stated.

"Yes…but not always…What I wanted to say to you is that these matters of the heart are often the source of much 'regret.' But there is no way of knowing what is in store for you unless you pursue what you want. I know that for me, at least, I have greater regrets over that which I did not do or say rather than that which I did or said."

A contemplative silence fell upon them. Leliana stirred the large pot while Zevran walked back to Bodhan's cart to collect the plates for their dinner. Alistair resumed cutting through nervy tendons, slicing and tugging off fur.

"I don't know if I answered your question, Sten," Wynne mused.

"I understand less than I did before. And I still do not know why she walked away," he complained.

"I don't know either." She shrugged. "But there is something I do know." A grin emerged on her lips.

"What is it?"

In the near distance Gunther started barking. They could discern Livia and Oghren's shadowy figures approaching the camp against the dusky sky.

"If it isn't the dwarf who puts the 'troll' in patrol!" Zevran called out cheerfully.

"It is this," Wynne resumed in a lower voice, addressing Sten alone. "That if he was sorry to see her leave, he should have gone after her."

"Why?" Sten needed her to elaborate.

Wynne shook her head.

"Simply because he wanted to. Besides, he needed to let her know how he felt. Somehow."

"It is not reasonable—she was the one who—"

Wynne interrupted him.

"I wonder which he would prefer: to be right, but alone, or to put aside convention…and perhaps… be happy."

Livia and Oghren stepped into the campfire circle.

"Is it ready yet?" Oghren rested his hands over his hips. He stared at Alistair, who was still struggling. "All right, pike-twirler. At this pace this meat is going to be our breakfast…next week. Give it here." He gestured towards the knife with his stubbly fingers.

"What happens if he does not properly interpret her intent?" Sten asked.

"Ah…that happens. Then… he will at least know, won't he? He will have his certainty at last," Wynne concluded.

"And if he does not go after her?"

"Then I believe he will finally understand the meaning of 'regret.' I hope he doesn't," Wynne informed him with a twinkle in her eye.

Livia crouched before the fire, rubbing her hands vigorously before the flames.

"What are we talking about?" she asked, searching Wynne and Sten's faces.

"Sten had questions about the book you gave him," Zevran informed her.

Livia appeared crestfallen by the revelation.

"Oh?" she turned to Sten. "But…You and I…We usually…You always ask me and I thought …" She pressed her lips together and looked down. "Well…I am glad you're enjoying the book at last," she declared in a strained manner before rising and turning towards her tent.

 _There. That!_ he noted. He had the distinct impression that although she was saying she was _glad_ , she was anything _but_.

She was not being sincere.

Wynne's words echoed in his mind.

_He needs to let her know._

He stared into the fire.

_He will have his certainty at last._

* * *

Livia would have stayed in her tent, sulking, except that she was ravenous. Since becoming a Grey Warden, she was always famished. As she sat down in the circle around the fire, she had to admit that her reaction to Sten's talking to the others about _The Song of Ser Llewellyn_ was quite immature. But she couldn't shake off the glumness she was feeling. She enjoyed the time they spent together, put up with all his demanding questions in exchange for what she perceived was a fledgling closeness between them. When they sat beside each other, speaking only to one another, lost in their conversations, she felt lighter, happier.

 _I thought it was special_ , she thought, forking a heap of food into her mouth hastily. It had meant something to her and she treasured that time with him. His turning to the others for help felt almost like a betrayal.

She chewed the unexciting meal, picking out some charred fur from her hunk of overcooked meat.

 _Perhaps this is for the best,_ she reasoned _. It will keep me in check and stop me from making a fool of myself a second time. This time I wouldn't have the maraas-lok to blame._

She finished her meal and excused herself. She cast Sten a furtive parting glance, noticing he had brought the book with him, as he had every night over the past few days. She looked away guiltily.

 _I'm not a very good person,_ she decided _. I'm acting selfishly and being petty.. All he wants is to learn about the culture he may possibly be stuck in for the remainder of his days. And I am shunning him right now out of…hurt pride?_

_It's not his fault he doesn't feel the same way._

She was torn for a moment—she hesitated before ducking into her tent.

 _I should go back and talk to him…But not tonight_ , she decided. _Another time._

 _I may be a Grey Warden, but I am still only human_ , she sighed.

* * *

He gave up when he began reading the top of the same page for the fifth or sixth time. He was alone, still sitting around the fire at that late hour, but he was distracted. Every once in a while, he would raise his eyes and stare at Livia's tent. He'd waited very patiently for all that time. He had grown accustomed to waiting, at that point. Which was why he found himself bristling at his own restlessness. He did not like that lack of discipline on his part.

 _He should have gone after her_ , he remembered Wynne's suggestion.

But that wasn't how such matters were conducted. He had always been _told_ to go to the tamassrans and—

He paused.

He had been told to go because he had never wanted to go. He was ordered to go and he followed the orders he received.

But what if he had wanted to go on his own accord?…

He stared at the solitary tent, trying to discern if there was any sign of movement within, but unable to see anything past the thick canvas.

He wanted to go to her. He was tired of languishing in that indecisive state, waiting for her to conform to conventions she knew nothing of.

 _I am no longer among the Qun_ , he reasoned. _And it is unlikely I will ever be again._ His exile, for better or for worse, exempted him, by mere absence, from certain expectations.

He seized the book and stood. He stared at the tent.

 _I can go,_ he decided with a clarity that surprised him.

 _Because_ _I want to,_ he realized, heading towards the tent.

 


	16. Inquiry

"I will go by night—  
for the world will not censure  
one who treads the path of dreams."

Ono no Komachi, _Kokinshû,_ Book 13 _  
_

* * *

"Livia, are you awake?"

Livia's eyes shot open and she gazed about the tent, disoriented, taking in the fact she had fallen asleep over the Grey Warden papers she and Alistair had salvaged months before. Her small lantern still glowed softly in the cramped space.

 _Sten_? she puzzled.

She dragged herself to the tent's opening and drew back the flap. Crouching before the entrance was the Qunari.

In his hand was the damned book.

"You are awake. Good. We must talk."

She combed her fingers through her disheveled hair and squinted tiredly at him.

"Sten, it is very late and I was, in fact, sleeping just now. Can we talk about Ser Llewellyn tomorrow?" she suggested.

He drew a deep breath.

"I did not come here to talk about the book."

She tilted her head, confused.

"No? What, then?"

He seemed troubled to her just then.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"There is information I need to know."

"Right now?" Livia complained. "It can't wait?"

"I have waited long enough," he declared.

"Very well. What do you need to know right now?"Livia scratched her head resignedly.

"Did you kiss me because you wished to initiate sex with me?"

She visibly blanched.

"Sweet Andraste!" she hissed, panicked, seizing him by the arm. "Keep your voice down!" Her eyes darted around the quiet camp. She shifted to the side, clearing the way into the tent.

"Come in," she stated nervously, her stomach churning into a knot.

* * *

She had foolishly believed he had let it go. She should have known better. It was _Sten_. And Sten never let anything he did not understand slip by. He crawled inside the tent and she indicated the end of her bedroll for him to sit on. He was comically large for the small space, she found, as he drew his knees up. She brought her lantern closer, so she could see his face better as she settled across from him.

She pressed her lips tightly.

_For every act, a consequence._

"Well…I suppose I do owe you an explanation," she finally spoke. "That night…It was not my best night," she stated. "I was a bit… intoxicated."

He examined her face.

"Hm," was all he said.

"And I told you I was sorry," she reminded him.

He leaned forward, spurred by her words.

"Why?"

"Why…Because…I…It wasn't my intention to put you in such an odd predicament—"

"You did not answer my first question," he insisted.

She cast him a pleading look; she couldn't have been more embarrassed.

"I…" her voice faded and she glanced down.

"If it was, that is not how Qunari initiate sex."

She closed her eyes for a moment and prayed that a hole would open up and swallow her just then.

"Do you wish to know?" he asked her.

He was peering at her with that familiar intensity.

"Pardon?" she managed to utter, stupefied.

"Do you wish to know? It is a simple question: yes or no."

He waited for her to answer, his gaze never veering away from her.

"Maker!" she whispered. "I don't know what to say."

"All that is required is a yes or a no," he insisted.

"It's not that simple," she attempted to argue.

"It should not be that complicated," he countered. "I ask you for the last time: yes or no?"

She did not know what to tell him. That exchange was beyond strange to her—she had no idea what he expected her to say. Or even…what he _wanted_ her to say.

"And if I said 'yes,'?" she risked.

His expression softened and he sat back again.

"Is that your reply?"

She could feel the blood rush to her face.

"Yes," she replied quietly, folding her hands over her lap. She met his gaze and waited.

 _What now?_ Livia wondered, her heart pounding.

* * *

He nodded slowly.

"A tamassran would not have proceeded as you did."

"A what?" She blinked nervously.

"Tamassran," he explained. "They are the priestesses."

The sinking feeling returned.

 _Wait…Does he think of me as a cleric_ , _a spiritual leader of sorts?_ was all that came to her mind _. Is this his way of telling me he thinks I behaved inappropriately?_

"I am certainly not a Revered Mother," she informed him in a flustered manner. "And perhaps I should include here that not all Chantry Mothers take vows of chastity."

"It is just as well," Sten replied. " I do not understand why an all-powerful deity would require a mortal's chastity," he retorted.

She rubbed her forehead.

"What do I have to do with a tamassran?"

"Tamassrans summon warriors to lie with them."

Livia struggled to understand.

_From priestess… to whore?_

"Are you insinuating I am of easy virtue merely because I—"

"You surprised me," he interrupted her. "No tamassran would proceed as you did."

She crossed her arms over her chest, indignantly. "So I am worse than a tamassran?" she puzzled unsure as to whether she was being insulted.

His eyes narrowed at her.

"You are not listening," he grumbled in a testier tone than intended. She was making it all very difficult for him. He was used to everyone knowing what their roles were in such circumstances.

"A warrior presents himself to a tamassran," he proceeded, "at an appointed time and place."

The garishly made up faces and raucous laughter at the Pearl rushed to her mind immediately.

"For a predetermined price?" she asked defiantly.

"No!" Sten interjected. "A tamassran cares for the body and mind of a warrior because it is her duty to the Qun. Tamassrans are respected. Their will is upheld, for they are the keepers our bloodlines, they bear and raise the children—"

To Sten's surprise, Livia suddenly let her head drop with a groan.

"I see," she added.

Her reaction convinced him of the opposite.

"I did not know," she tried to nod graciously. "My apologies, Sten. You never spoke of her before, or I would never have—"

Sten peered at her in slight confusion.

"Where is she now?" Livia forced herself to ask kindly, despite her enormous disappointment.

"Who?"

"Your tamassran," she clarified.

An odd expression crossed his face.

"I do not have a tamassran. Tamassrans are not things that can belong to—"

"But you just said… Am I correct in assuming you are referring to a spouse…A partner?"

He shook his head.

"No. The Qun does not officially sanction such bonds. The tamassrans are 'those who speak'. They are priestesses and they answer to the Ariqun."

She looked at him helplessly, dumbfounded. _I don't know what he is trying to tell me_ , she thought miserably.

"Ariqun?" she asked.

"There is the Arishok, the Arigena, and the Ariqun," he began to explain. One glance at Livia's despondent expression, though, gave him pause.

"Well?" Livia prodded at his sudden silence.

Sten understood then that he had a choice: he could sit there and describe the Triumvirate. He could tell her how the body, the mind, and the soul of every Qunari fell under their governance and guidance. And the more he insisted in trying to make her understand, the more confused she would become, the farther she would draw away from him. He could go on, but he knew he would be armoring up for a lost battle.

Certainty seemed unattainable at that point. Unless...He had to take a risk.

"A warrior presents himself when called by the tamassrans," he proceeded. "And when a warrior stands before the tamassran he has been paired with, he must await her orders."

"What orders?" She was growing restless, frustrated by that aimless meandering, he could see. The small lantern cast long shadows against the tent's canvas walls.

He finally sat up and knelt before her, a certain practiced formality in the motion.

"First is the order to undress," he stated straightforwardly. He reached for the hem of his tunic and waited.

Her eyes widened as she stared at the arms crossed over his torso, gripping the edge of the garment.

"Oh," was all she was able to muster.

"You must give the order," he instructed her, his fingers digging deeper into the cloth, balling into a tight fist.

"The order," she murmured, as if in a daze.

"To undress," he encouraged her.

"Maker," she whispered softly as she realized what he was proposing. She took a deep breath. "Undress," she uttered, as if daring him.

He pulled the tunic over his head, casting it on the ground nearby. He remained before her on his knees, waiting. Her gaze swept over his broad shoulders and chiseled chest. For a moment she appeared so stunned that he was tempted to reach for his tunic. He was used to adept appraisals and remarks, even those containing admiration. He did not know what her bewilderment meant or what to expect from her.

She sought his eyes.

"And now?" she asked at last. "Is it my turn?" she asked almost shyly, reaching for the hem of her own tunic.

He was overcome by an unexpected tenderness.

"Only if you are pleased with me. After you have inspected me."

"Inspect _you_?" she asked incredulously, leaning forward.

"You must be assured that I am in good physical health…and that I am not lacking in any way," he told her. "Both warrior and tamassran may end the encounter at any time. If that occurs, it usually happens when the tamassran inspects her partner and—"

She stared at his light violet eyes, at the serious expression as he spoke. He was offering himself to her.

"Undress," she commanded, interrupting him, her voice steady.

At her tone, his pulse quickened. He began to unlace his breeches. He noticed, with satisfaction, that her eyes traveled down from his face to observe the progress of his fingers as they worked the laces on his breeches. There was no concealing the bulge beneath the cloth. As he loosened the laces, he tugged the breeches down past his hips and then momentarily obstructed his nakedness as he sat down on her bedroll to remove his boots. He placed them aside carefully and pulled off the rest of his clothing, setting everything down neatly, as he had always done.

"And now?" she asked, mesmerized. _He is perfect_ , she noted lustily.

"You must inspect me," he revealed.

"The inspection," she repeated, trying to suppress a grin.

"Yes. Before you …approve," he told her. "I would stand, but I can only kneel in this small tent," he regretted, rising to his knees. He held still, peering ahead, his arms resting against his body. She edged closer, a mix of longing and nervousness overpowering her. She looked at him in awe, her gaze sweeping over his stern expression, noting the peculiar restraint he evinced. He faced forward, impassively, like a soldier presenting himself for review. Her eyes dropped to his chest and then down to his erection. She realized she must have been openly gaping when his cock twitched under her persistent stare. She quickly slipped behind him, her heart pounding as she tried to collect herself. When she looked up at his back, she noticed a patch of mottled skin between his shoulder blades.

"Sten, what is this... mark across your back?" she wondered.

He turned his head halfway, unsure of her tone. Was it disapproval? Disappointment?

"An injury sustained during an attack on Tevinter. I had not battled a fire-wielding mage before. I have since learned," was all he said.

At her silence, he wondered if it repulsed her. Perhaps she did not like it—did she see it as a sign of weakness? Of defeat? Even the tamassrans tended to linger over it for longer than he liked. But it had never been the source of any demerits against him before.

"A warrior's body undergoes many hardships in service to the Qun. It is not unusual," he attempted to explain. He needed to convey to her that it should not matter.

"May I touch you?" she asked in a hushed tone. "Is it allowed?"

"It is," he replied immediately, barely concealing his relief.

Livia raised her hand, poising it over his muscular back and allowed her fingertips to graze the damaged skin. He lowered his head closed his eyes, a new surge of desire blooming at her touch.

"It must have been horribly painful," she remarked, caressing the skin delicately, as if it were still a recent wound. "It must have been a fierce battle."

He raised his head again.

"Hm," he concurred.

She removed her hand.

He heard soft rustling behind him.

"What happened to the mage who did this to you? Was he or she ever captured?"

She was moving behind him—he caught her, out of the corner of his eye, placing her own clothes on the ground.

"No."

"Oh," she hesitated.

She moved closer—he could feel her warmth even without her touching him.

"It would be impossible to catch him," Sten continued.

"What does that mean?" she spoke in a whisper, her lips close to his ear.

"He is dead."

She snorted lightly at the unexpected explanation and he couldn't help a faint grin himself. Before he could reply, though, she slipped her arms around him. He inhaled deeply as she clasped him tightly, her bare skin seductively soft and warm against his back. She rested her cheek against his shoulder.

"How should I proceed?" she asked.

"Have I met with your approval?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied decisively. He could hear the smile in her voice. He placed his hands firmly over hers. "And now? Do you inspect me? Must I meet with your approval, as well?" she wondered. There was a playfulness to her words.

An indescribable, intoxicating emotion took hold of him—an overpowering need to hold her close.

"It is not necessary," he replied, no longer resisting as he turned around, drawing her into his arms. "I already know."


	17. All That Is Unsaid

I have met my love.  
When I compare this present  
With feelings of the past,

My passion is now as if  
I have never loved before.

—Fujiwara no Atsutada, Poem 43, _Ogura Hyakunin Isshu_

* * *

_Issqun hera._

Sten was determined to show restraint, take his time, as he wrapped his arms around Livia's waist and guided her onto the bedroll alongside him. His hand appeared to him so burly and large as it rested on her hip.

He had learned from the tamassrans that it was his obligation to bring them pleasure should they express their want for it, just as it was theirs to satisfy his needs. There were conventions to uphold—an intimate give and take, with boundaries clearly drawn, expectations conveyed. Each partner took turns in overseeing the other's pleasure. Yet, Livia, to his confusion, would not quiet and allow him to dedicate himself to pleasuring her. As he buried his face in her neck, his nose grazing her skin, inhaling her warm scent, he believed it was implicit that she should yield and allow him to satisfy her properly. As expected. Instead, she squirmed restlessly. Her arms encircled his neck, her lips brushed over his jaw, too close to his lips. He tensed at the proximity and quickly turned his head away. He needed to distract her, so he renewed his attentions to her, his hand gliding past her waist, coursing over her stomach, her ribs, and palming her breast. For a moment she relented, pushing into the caress. It pleased him that he had such an effect on her and he thought she would at last relent. But then she rolled onto her side, pressing her body against his. Her hands roved, running over his chest, slipping down further, reaching between his legs to stroke his erection. As she lightly touched his cock, he grunted, at once exhilarated by the flash of tantalizing pleasure and distraught at the possibility of losing control.

He wrenched her hand away, trying to pin her arm to her side. Before she could protest or question him, he slid his hand around her back, then lower, splaying it over the soft swell of her bottom. Aroused, she pushed her hips against his once more, the soft tuft of hair between her legs grazing the base of his shaft, her skin hot and her sex invitingly wet. He growled, squeezing her harder than intended and she gasped, her fingers digging into his arm. He was having difficulty forming coherent thoughts, following any conjured directives that urged him to pace himself, contain his passion. Instead, he seized her leg and pulled it over his hip. His hand followed the smooth, muscular curve of her thigh, slipping between her legs. She shuddered at his touch, a soft moan escaping her parted lips as he began to slowly, steadily caress her, teasing her clit with each pass of his fingertips. He was mesmerized by her, by her desire laid so raw before him. It was customary for him to shut his eyes, his partners doing the same, as if both sought some privacy away from each other, a retreat, when encountering such intimate reactions. But Livia gazed at him headily, as if beckoning to him. As her breath grew ragged, his own chest heaved; it was as if the boundaries between them were dissolving. She reached between them again and this time her hand encircled his cock firmly, sending out a jolt of desire through him. She stroked him steadily and he found himself fighting his urgent need to take her right then. She adjusted her leg over his hip and angled his cock so that the tip just entered her. Her breath hitched at the sensation and he gripped her leg tighter, allowing her to guide him completely inside her.

There was nothing else but her.

She rested her forehead against his as her hand reached up, tremulously stroking his face. She drew closer and at the touch of her lips over his, he flinched instinctively, a lingering trace of an old refusal surfacing. She persisted, flicking her tongue seductively over his lips and he was taken aback, surprised that it had aroused him so deeply, the sensation causing his cock to twitch intensely. She moaned against his mouth, breathy and soft, and he bucked harder into her, spurred on by his craving.

Kisses, he had believed, were an unnecessary artifice of seduction. They offered the illusion of a closeness that did not exist between partners, and were something he had refused to indulge. But right then, as Livia kissed him so delicately, her hand cupping his face, he yielded, his lips gradually parting to receive her tongue, each kiss growing more intense, more passionate.

There were no lies in those kisses, he thought, an aching sweetness coursing through him.

He lost himself. It was against everything he strove to be—rational, calm, and measured. Such loss of control was a failure, he knew. But her desire inflamed his and his had heightened hers, so that when she finally tensed, shuddering in his arms as she reached her release, he followed, surrendering completely to his own bliss.

* * *

His chest still heaved as the intensity of the moment slowly faded. She lay in his arms, her head resting over his shoulder. He gazed down at her, enjoying her closeness, how she draped her arm across his chest, her leg wedged between his legs.

"Livia," he called to her.

She turned her head up to face him and he was struck by a surge of emotion at the warmth in her eyes.

"Yes?" she asked, her fingers brushing over his stomach.

"There is something you should know," he began. Her brow furrowed slightly. "It is not customary for a warrior and tamassran to remain together after the encounter is concluded," he explained.

"Oh?" she replied simply, folding her hands over his chest and poising her chin inquisitively on them.

"It is seen as disruptive to sleep." He brushed his hand over her back.

"Do you wish to leave?" she asked.

"Do you wish me to leave?" he countered seriously, his hand stilling over her.

"I think it is time I introduced you to some Fereldan customs." She smiled. "Stay," she whispered, blinking at him slowly.

It disarmed him.

She pulled herself up over him, punctuating her request with kisses.

He tenderly swept her long hair off her face as their lips clicked softly against each other. _No lies_ , he thought hazily, his heart full: those kisses between them were, instead, a pronouncement of all that remained unsaid.

* * *

He could not sleep.

Livia was not a peaceful sleeper.

He found himself jarred out of any light slumber he drifted into by her tossing and turning, her shoulder bumping into his, her knees crashing into his legs, her elbow digging into his ribs. The bedroll was too small for both of them.

 _It will not be a restful night_ , he thought, turning his head to watch her wrestle with the blankets in her agitated sleep.

In the faint lamplight, growing dimmer and dimmer, he noticed the expression over her features was anything but serene—her brow had furrowed, her lips were tightly pressed together, her body tensed.

 _Saar-hissra_ , he realized, thinking of those dreams that despite being nothing more than a deception, resulted in real suffering.

At one point she let out a low, muffled cry.

"Livia," he uttered into the quiet tent. She did not respond—instead, her hands clenched into fists and she curled into herself, her slender back to him, the line of her spine visible beneath her skin. He reached across, placing a placating hand over her shoulder, but she whimpered instead, huddling further into herself.

"Livia," he said again, gently shaking her. He knew, from catching fragments of conversation between her and Alistair early on that Wardens' dreams were fraught with strange omens and dangerous visions: a turmoil of Fade and Taint and whatever other sorcery the Blight possessed.

He would have preferred swords, maces, polearms, all aiming to strike him. He would even have preferred magic over whatever held Livia in its sway; anything else, as long as he could see his enemy, the source, the wretched caster. He remembered the vision he'd had in the Fade. He had enjoyed having his brothers impossibly assembled around him once more. Everything rational and logical had told him then that everything unfolding was irreconcilable with reality, down to the watery sun glimmering overhead and the Karashoks' usual grousing…But the glaring truth hadn't mattered then. The poisonous illusion had given him something he had not known he had so needed, Sten had understood later on as he'd mulled over the event.

 _A potent foe entrenched in the mind_ …

A foe one could not see, could not touch, but who completely enveloped and possessed one's faculties was the most dangerous of all, he decided. And right then, whatever powers conjured such things and held the mind in such thrall, were striking at Livia.

He tried to wake her from her sleep, murmuring her name, shaking her arm more vigorously, but she fought him, swatting at his hands, struggling as if imprisoned. He stopped for a moment, peeved at his ineffectiveness, thinking that if in addition to their training, he taught her how to strengthen her mind, protect herself through discipline and practice, his help would be more effective. But those were all things that would have to wait for a later hour. At that moment she was in distress. He instinctively extended his arm, wrapping it across her midriff, and pulled her in closely against his chest. She whimpered, and he held her tightly. His embrace enveloped her, at once shielding and anchoring.

"Taashath," he whispered soothingly.

Her hands clasped his wrist and his arm firmly, as if ensuring they remained in place.

He could feel her progressively catching her breath, her trembling subsiding.

Livia's voice sounded faint to his ears. She was clearly shaken by her vision.

"The Archdemon…He is stirring…like I've never felt him before. I am sure Alistair must have sensed it at well…Soon…Not yet, but soon," she said to him.

"Kost," he breathed into her hair, not letting her go.

"It helps," she said softly, nestling against him, her hands sliding over his.

"What does?" he asked.

"This. You," she admitted. "What were you saying?" Before he could reply, she continued, seized by her thoughts. "Sometimes, before we spar in the morning, I see you sitting outside and I can hear you praying—"

"It is not praying. Qunari do not pray like your people."

"Then what are you doing?" The lamp flickered a few times before fading into complete darkness.

"We recite the teachings and stories that guide us."

"I want to hear them," she entreated him.

He fell silent for a moment.

"Existence is a choice," he began slowly, carefully choosing his words. "There is no chaos in the world, only complexity."

* * *

She closed her eyes, grateful for his warmth, grateful for his proximity.

"In Qunlat," she interrupted gently, her fingers caressing the back of his hand.

"You do not speak Qunlat," he chided her mildly. "If you want to know—"

"I said I want to 'hear,'" she told him. "Please."

He relented, his low voice reciting quietly, a reassuring calm and reverence in his tone. She let herself be lulled by the unfamiliar words, alternating between the harsher, hard sounds, and the softer, aspirated ones that glided, silken, into her ears. She rested in his arms finding comfort in his voice. His words were protection, she found, a barrier defending her against the darkness that drew nearer. She imagined in them a strength she wished to nurture in herself, the assuredness and courage of a people who were fearless.

_At peace with themselves, even when at war._

It gave her hope.

If there was so much she didn't know, so much she hadn't imagined existed before she had set out into the world on that penitent mission to save Ferelden, then perhaps the way to win the Landsmeet and the secret to beating the Archdemon were, like so much that she had only learned, about to be revealed, disentangled.

 _Simply because I cannot imagine the impossible, does not mean it does not exist. After all, I never believed this moment possible,_ she thought, a rush of tenderness spreading through her as she surrendered to an exhausted sleep.

She shooed away the last vestiges of her vision with the weight of his hands, the pressure of his arms holding her firmly against him, the sound of his voice, rhythmic and soothing in its unintelligibility.

* * *

_"Ataash varin kata. Anaan esaam Qun."_

He finally fell silent, his chin resting over her head. She was asleep, her breathing deep, regular. Yet, when he'd tried moving, shifting his arm slightly, she had mumbled a weak protest in her sleep.

No, he would not sleep well that night, he concluded, with resignation. And yet, as he held her, feeling the steady pulse of her heartbeat, he knew, with conviction and certainty, nothing could tear him away from her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First of all: thank you. I'm so touched by the response to this fic. Your comments make my day, motivate me to write, and make me just so damn happy. *Hugs*
> 
> A few notes:
> 
> I've opened each chapter with quotes by martial arts masters, except for these last two chapters, which are poems (tanka) by Ono no Komachi and Fujiwara no Atsutada, both classical Japanese waka poets whose love poems endure more than a thousand years later. I chose a woman (Komachi) and a man (Atsutada) for the complementarity of views, like two bookends holding these two chapters together. I hope you enjoy them.
> 
> Sten's vision in the Fade involves being reunited with his fellow Qunari of the Beresaad, who perished in Ferelden during the Darkspawn attack. If you remember it (or YouTube it) it's really fascinating and offers us an amazing insight into Sten's character: unlike the other companions, he is consciously cognizant that he is dealing with a lie, and illusion. But he remains simply because he is happy to see his comrades again. It kills me every time. He has very complex emotions and isn't just this staid, rigid character.
> 
> I took a little freedom with the Qunlat here:
> 
> Issqun hera means, literally, 'Mastery/mastering' and 'time'. I thought it worked to convey the idea of pacing one's self...
> 
> Saar-hissra is also another neologism combining the words "dangerous" and "illusion." I think that's an appropriate combination for the concept of a 'nightmare.'
> 
> The other words and phrases I took from the DA wiki on Qunlat:
> 
> Taashath- means 'calm.'
> 
> Kost- means 'peace.'
> 
> (All soothing words.)
> 
> Ataash varin kata: "In the end lies glory."
> 
> Anaan esaam Qun: "Victory is in the Qun."
> 
> Sten's recitation in common is from Canto 1 from the Qun's code. Not sure if it's from the Tome of Koslun. Let's ask Isabela. ;-)


	18. The Same, Yet Different

I have no parents:

I make the heavens and the earth my parents.

I have no home:

I make awareness my home.

I have no life or death:

I make the tides of breathing my life and death.

-Anonymous Samurai, 14th century

* * *

Livia turned in her bedroll and opened her eyes only to find herself alone. She yawned tiredly and raised her head, glancing about the desolate tent. Sten had left no vestiges of his presence. She reached for her discarded clothes nearby and pulled them on pensively while rubbing her arms and legs vigorously in the damp morning chill. Wind rolling from the choppy lake blustered against the tent noisily.

It was still early in the morning—the others hadn't started stirring about the camp. Black birds cawed in the trees and a timid fire struggled in the fire pit. Livia tossed in some firewood, scattering embers and ashes as she did so. Her eyes surveyed the still camp. She expanded her search to an embankment, approaching the margins of the lake, her boots crushing dry leaves, all the grass brittle and yellowed. She saw him along a longer stretch of the shore— an imposing, solitary figure, swinging his sword forcefully across the air. She admired him from afar: the graceful ease with which he hoisted the heavy blade up, swiveling it at an angle for a strike, the precision of his movements—fluid, no hesitation, no doubt. As she observed him, she was assailed by a peculiar shyness, something she hadn't experienced since she was a much younger woman and realized that it had been a long time since she hadn't known what to expect, how to proceed.

At one point he turned in her direction, his blade immediately slowing down mid swing as his eyes met hers.

 _Where do we go from here?_ she thought with a nervous giddiness.

He did not smile but his gaze was calm, placid. Wordlessly, he stepped aside and poised the tip of his sword on the pebbly ground, as if granting her passage. It was a familiar ritual between them—an invitation—how they initiated their practices. She unsheathed her own sword and stepped forth, ready to engage.

* * *

Livia wiped her brow with the back of her glove, her arms straining with exhaustion.

 _Is it my impression, or is he making me work harder?_ she wondered, peering up at him from partially downcast eyes.

"Are we done?" she called out, watching him take a few steps across from her, whirl around, and raise his sword again.

"No," he retorted. In the near distance, she could see figures wrapped in blankets bumbling around the campfire.

_He hasn't said anything. It is as if I hallucinated the entire evening. He hasn't given me the slightest sign acknowledging last night._

She gripped her pommel firmly and focused on the Qunari. He would give her an opening and she would attack. She waited for the opening, growing more impatient as he took his time.

 _Nothing. No recognition whatsoever of what transpired between us._ The thought fettered at her, relentless.

She lowered her sword, antsy over his lack of action, at his stillness, as he never offered her that opening so they could conclude their exercise.

"We need to finish up," she decided.

"Agreed," he stated, holding his stance.

She turned around, heading towards camp, but after a few steps realized he was not following her. He remained in place, his sword still raised.

"Aren't you coming?" she asked

"Yes." But he did not move.

 _What did I expect?_ She sighed, walking back.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"Something that has not been started cannot be finished."

"I was waiting for you to give me an opening."

"I was waiting for you to focus in order to give you an opening," he explained.

"But what are you waiting for _now_? We are done. I am no longer sparring. I am right here!" she protested.

"No. You are not. Your mind is wandering. You are distracted. Your muscles respond, but your mind is not in command," he reproached her.

It was unfair. She bore so much responsibility, so much worry.

"I believe my circumstances definitely warrant the occasional distraction!"

"Come," he beckoned her, walking in the opposite direction from the camp.

She followed, peering over her shoulder as the camp—and any promise of breakfast— grew more distant. He led her to a small beach, and once arriving, knelt on the rocky shore.

The sight of him on his knees brought back a pleasant memory of the previous night.

"Here." He pointed before him. Livia knelt, facing him.

"What are we doing?" she asked. He cut a striking figure against the backdrop of the lake, his massive hands resting over his knees.

"Breathing in," he replied curtly.

"And then?"

"Breathing out," he continued.

"We don't have time for this," she reminded him. "We have to break camp. And aren't you the one who is always reminding us we can't linger?"

"Yes," he agreed. "Sometimes."

"And so?" she pressed on.

"Sometimes. The right time. Not now. Now, we breathe."

She observed him draw breath and exhale, over and over, in a monotonous, repetitive pattern. She imitated him, inhaling deeply, and then breathing out. He continued and so did she, growing more and more restless with each breath. It was not what she wanted to be doing right then.

_Couldn't he see? Didn't he care?  
_

"Sten, I do not see the purpose of this."

"I agree."

 _To small victories_! she thought. "I will meet you back at the camp," she stated, beginning to stand up.

"If you cannot master your thoughts, they will master you."

She hesitated.

"To fight the Archdemon, you must become one with your body and be present. Nothing more," he informed her, not moving.

"I train every day and I am preparing my hardest," she told him defensively.

"You are afraid."

She said nothing. A twinge of shame assailed her: he had seen her thrash through her nightmare the previous night. Of all that had transpired between them then—that was what he was bringing up?

"Do you think less of me for it?" she wondered, looking away.

"If I did, I would not be here, training you like a Qunari warrior," he told her. He held her gaze and her expression softened even as she flushed at his words. "Your fear will compel you to make poor decisions. You must conquer it. Reestablish your _aqun_."

Livia hesitated before asking. Maker knew what labyrinthine trail that would lead them down into. But she knew her curiosity would get the best of her. When it came to him, it always did. At first it was for the novelty, but over time it had become something more—a pressing need to understand him. To know him.

"What is that: _aqun_?" she asked at last, sitting back on her folded legs.

"Your _aqun_ ," he repeated. "In your language the closest word for it is 'balance'. Every warrior's _aqun_ must be sound before battle. Emotions are a distraction in combat. They divert a warrior from his true aim."

"To win?" she wondered.

"No. To _be_ ," he explained.

"I don't understand."

"I am a warrior. I must embody everything a warrior is," he explained. "And everything a warrior is, does not amount to much," he continued.

She was about to protest.

"It is not much," he ascertained. "It should not be much. Anything more is only a burden. Anything else is a distraction. You must clear your mind of thoughts that bind you to emotions when confronted with adversity."

"There are thinkers in Ferelden who have ascertained that nothing of great significance can be accomplished in the world without passion," she argued.

"Hm." He pondered her words, his eyes narrowing slightly. She observed him fall into puzzled contemplation of her words. She felt an inkling of pride over stumping him. Her contentment was short-lived, however. "If that is so, then make clearing your mind your passion," he finally countered.

She could barely conceal her amusement.

"Very well," she settled. "What am I learning, then?"

It was Sten's turn to examine her with an inscrutable expression.

"Nothing," he stated, to her exasperation.

* * *

"It is normal," he reassured her in light of her frustration. "Your mind has not been trained."

Livia tried again, closing her eyes and trying to note nothing but her breath. Immediately the thoughts flooded her mind. _Uneasy. He finds me weak. He pities me. That's all he has taken away from last night._

She exhaled, aggravated, and tried to redirect her focus to the simple act of inhaling and exhaling, like he had taught her. She opened one eye to peek and found him reverently still, his own eyes shut. She edged a bit closer to him. Her thoughts wandered back to the previous night and she moved even closer, determined, their knees bumping.

* * *

"What are you doing?" he asked, not opening his eyes.

"I am having difficulty clearing my mind of my thoughts."

She reached across and let her hand settle over his.

He opened his eyes at last and peered at her sternly.

"Now is not the time."

"Do you not want to know what I am thinking about?"

"I have cleared my mind of my thoughts, I do not need to clear it of yours," he scolded her.

She balked before resuming.

"It's just that…You…Last night was so...And then you were gone this morning. And you haven't said anything…Or given me any indication that... It's as if last night never happened," she told him a bit resentfully.

Sten was at a loss. He was not acquainted with their customs, and the little he had gleaned, he refused to emulate. The grandiose gestures and declarations of the _bas_ seemed ridiculous to him: insincere. They smacked of chicanery, supported by actions done out of expectation, indolent in that their mere performance supposedly represented true sentiment and intent. To him, they certainly seemed contrived. And yet, he had little to go on. Qunari custom provided him with no formal precedents on such matters. He had never been with the same tamassran more than once, he realized. One encounter blended into the other; the only aspects anchored to his memory had to do with a certain predictability and familiarity. To him, those tamassrans were just that: tamassrans. And he was quite sure that to them he was just a warrior, as well. That had had to suffice for so long. But right then, as Livia sought his attention, sought something more from him, something elusive, he did not know what to say, how to proceed. He had left her tent that morning feeling at ease, peaceful. He hadn't wanted to disturb her sleep and hoped she would eventually join him in practice. He had decided to train her in the practices of Qunari warriors— the antaam, the Beresaad— all he had ever known. To him, that had to be worth more than grandiloquent speeches or tokens of affection.

"Livia," he began slowly. "It is important that you learn what I have to teach you," he explained.

"Of course. Now is not the time for other matters." She nodded with slight irritation.

 _She does not understand_ , he thought dejectedly. She had to learn, learn well…and quickly. She _had_ to defeat the Archdemon.

He refused to imagine any other outcome.

Why couldn't she see that?

"Last night, when you were telling me about how Qunari…" she paused, the words snagging on her embarrassment. "How Qunari go about… such matters…between a man and a woman…Was that all it was? Something you needed to show me? Just to teach me?"

He looked at her in confusion.

"Yes," he replied. He had wanted to share that with her.

"And that's all?" It was as if she were seeking confirmation, in her tone a disappointment mixed with sadness.

 _Another misunderstanding_ , he perceived.

"The elf and the dwarf wanted to know as well. But I did not wish to show them," he countered.

She couldn't help grinning, but she seized upon it.

"So why did you wish to show me?"

What did she want from him? he despaired.

"Because I wanted you to see," was his sole reply. He hoped it would suffice. He hoped it would convey his feelings.

"I wonder, Sten…" she began.

 _I wonder if your people are capable of love. I don't doubt your devotion, your dedication, or your fierce loyalty to the Qun. I believe that is a form of love, as well. But I wonder, though, if you are able to conceive of something that does not exist in your culture_ , she thought, examining his face.

"What is it?" he pressed on, perplexed.

She tilted her head.

"If we were among your people: what would happen between us now?"

He shook his head.

"Such a thing is not possible."

"What if I was one of the women you told me of last night: one of the priestesses?"

"A tamassran," he clarified.

"Yes. If I were a tamassran?"

"You would not be you," he concluded, his voice taking on a gentler tone.

She had no idea where she stood, what it had all meant, if it had meant anything. She felt vulnerable enough shouldering all her worries and responsibilities. She did not need to have her heart dragged into it all as well.

"Just imagine, Sten," she pleaded. "If I were…What would happen now?"

"It does not make sense. If you were a tamassran, you would not need to ask; you would know."

"Know what?" she persisted.

"That you had fulfilled your duty and I had fulfilled mine, and in that knowledge, we would part ways."

Her stomach sank.

_Part ways._

"But you are not a tamassran," he reminded her. What was he trying to tell her? He struggled with his own unarticulated thoughts, still a rush of emotions tugging at him. "May I come to you again?" he asked abruptly, hopeful.

She raised her brows slightly in surprise.

"A warrior very rarely visits the same tamassran more than once," he told her. "And even that is not decided by him," he said. "But you are not a tamassran and I am deciding for myself. May I come to you again?"

 _This between us is not going to be easy_ , she decided, touched by the intensity of his request, her hand gripping his tightly. _But then again, few things worthwhile are._

"Yes," she replied, looking into his eyes. "You may," she said softly.

"Tonight," he stated boldly, searching her face for a confirmation.

"Will it be the right time then?" The hint of a smile insinuated itself on her lips.

"It will." It was all he had wanted to hear from her.

"Then I will be waiting," she said. She leaned forward quickly and planted a small kiss on his cheek. He did not flinch, but she was not sure he had completely approved, either. "I decided it was the right moment for that myself," she declared with a playful defiance. "And now I think I can attempt your breathing exercise. My mind is more at ease," she told him.

He saw her close her hazel eyes and watched her chest slowly rise and fall with each deep breath. He tried to settle into his own practice, but found that he was unable to focus. Her knees touching his, her hand over his, the turmoil of how quickly understanding shifted between them, leading to so many extremes— frustration and apprehension, affection and something more, something indefinable, but deeper.

How was it that he could be so at peace, so at ease, while also feeling so perplexed and lost? She had somehow redefined his _aqun_. It was no longer what it once was.

And strangest of all: that he found he yearned for the upheaval she wrought in him.

 _That is not right, either,_ he decided, opening his eyes, all hopes of concluding his practice discarded. _Not the upheaval._

No: it was Livia herself, he realized, contemplating her so close to him.

All of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Livia's quote on passion is really by Hegel: "We assert then that nothing has been accomplished without interest on the part of the actors; and — if interest be called passion, inasmuch as the whole individuality, to the neglect of all other actual or possible interests and claims, is devoted to an object with every fibre of volition, concentrating all its desires and powers upon it — we may affirm absolutely that nothing great in the World has been accomplished without passion." This is from his Lectures on the Philosophy of History and I think his dense musings on human logic and spirit offer an interesting counterpoint when compared to the opening quote from this chapter, which is the powerful, selfless poem by an anonymous samurai - often a point of reference for those who wish to understand Bushido. There are similarities between both philosophies, but they are articulated so differently, hail from such apparently disparate cultures, that I thought it would be interesting to allude to them both given how Livia and Sten struggle to communicate...And OMG, I need to shut up now.
> 
> Wow. I nerded hard here.


	19. Understandings

"As a samurai, I must strengthen my character; as a human being I must perfect my spirit."

_Yamaoka Tesshu_

 

* * *

Their group had become adept at dismantling their camp. Sten helped the dwarf and the elf quickly break down their tent, while fielding their questions.

"You didn't sleep in the tent last night," Zevran noted.

"No," Sten replied, focusing on removing the stakes from the ground.

"Was it something the elf did?" Oghren teased.

Zevran raised his finger.

"Many things may be said of me, but that I make for a poor bedfellow is not one of them!" he retorted. "It is more likely that a night spent in the frigid outdoors at the mercy of the wilderness appeared to be an infinitely more civilized option than sharing a tent with you." He peered at Sten as he went about collecting the stakes off the ground. "Can't blame him one bit. You were in rare form last night, dwarf…I thought you were channeling the Archdemon, you snored so loudly!"

Oghren dragged the heavy canvas aside, shaking it with a brisk snap before starting to fold it.

"Do I snore too loudly? Well, what about that? I don't do anything half-arsedly," he chuckled.

 _Good_ , Sten thought. _They have made incorrect assumptions I will not correct_ , he observed, moving about quietly. Occasionally he allowed his sight to wander off to Livia, watching her go through the motions of packing, carrying her collapsed tent to Bodhan's cart. He found himself curiously stuck between an intense tenderness and a restless lustiness stoked by the tantalizing memories of the previous night— _her eyes half closed, her breath hot against his skin, seeking his lips so headily, disarmingly sincere in her uninhibited ways, seductively revealing her pleasure when he thrust_ —

"Never ready!" Zevran exclaimed, tossing his arms into the air. "We've been ready to go for over an hour," he exaggerated, collapsing by the packs.

Sten bridled impatiently, taking in a deep, cold breath of air to scatter the pleasant thoughts he knew he shouldn't be indulging at that moment with a rebellious twinge of regret.

"Who are we waiting for?" Oghren puzzled, glancing at the desolate camp.

"Who else?" Zevran grumbled. "Alistair."

On the ground, next to Sten's belongings, was the infamous tome. Zevran casually reached for it, hauling the book onto his lap. Sten crossed his arms, sheltering his raw hands from the biting cold as he watched Zevran leaf through the tiresome book.

"The non-Fereldans find this quite terrible, no?" he asked after a few moments, seeking confirmation from him.

"Perhaps instead of mocking a classic, you should learn from it," Leliana proposed.

Zevran's hand brushed over the leather cover.

"Ah, indeed, my good Leliana. I am being unfair to the valiant Ser."

She eyed him suspiciously as she finished stashing the last of her belongings in her pack.

"If only we could have such a great legend among us right now," he sighed.

Leliana crossed her arms expectantly as Wynne raised her head.

"Aye—he did fight legendary battles."

"I'm surprised that things even escalated to battle if Ser Llewellyn was involved!" Zevran declared, raising his finger into the air.

"Where is this going?" Oghren grumbled, rolling his eyes.

"I am sure the man could defeat entire armies by just launching into one of his soporific speeches!" Zevran announced, sitting up and adjusting the book over his knee. "Cometh, loyal broth'rs of Andraste! Alloweth us to square these enemies of our faith this fairest morning, ov'r the verdant pastures of our lands, lands favor'd by the Maker and His grace. Gripeth thine sw'rds, standeth steadily, bid these scoundrels a swift and decisive farewell into the depths of…" He flipped the cover shut once more. "While he was busy giving that speech, I would have managed to assassinate him at least five times already."

Oghren chortled as Leliana glared.

"I don't think even that would have stopped him," the dwarf seconded impishly, causing Leliana to turn her indignant stare at him.

"True, true!" Zevran mused. "I'd probably have to assassinate myself then, to escape his speech." He tossed the book back on the ground by Sten's pack. A small cloud of dust rose up where it fell.

"I think this is the case of an inferior talent unable to appreciate a greater one!" Leliana suggested, hoisting up her pack.

Wynne shook her head.

"What talent?" Zevran jeered.

"Of using his words eloquently!" Leliana retorted.

"Using his words eloquently," Zevran teased. "Only if his words are all the words _ever_!"

"Some of us appreciate such articulateness," she declared, with a finality in her tone.

"I see!" Zevran feigned to acquiesce. " We are calling long-windedness 'eloquence'."

Leliana tsked, annoyed, and began to head down the trail towards the cart.

Sten's eyes narrowed. They were arguing again, saying words that indicated one thing but referred to another. He had the impression that they were quibbling indirectly about something else. What, exactly, remained elusive to him…And perhaps to them, as well, he surmised. He had just figured out something important about the _bas_ : the more they fancied each other, the greater their irritation at each other for failing to express or uphold similar ideas and opinions, or for failing to anticipate each other's desires.

Alistair approached them.

"Are we ready to go?" he asked the group.

Zevran tapped his fist to his chest and stood up, a serious expression over his handsome features.

"I shall ingratiate thee with a response indicating the ilk of mine own state of preparedness, which thou seeketh to asc'rtain and readily v'rify—" the elf stated affectedly.

Alistair blinked back at him, dumbfounded.

"Was that a yes or a no?" he risked.

"Ha!" Zevran yelled. "Forgive me! I was being eloquent!" he shouted out in Leliana's direction. "Doth it not pleaseth thee?" he mocked in a loud staccato.

"You're impossible," Leliana retorted, turning her head.

"Pardon?" Zevran cupped his ear. "That was hardly an eloquent reply!" he protested. "I expected witty repartee, dear lady."

"Doesn't your wretched Chantry have any heroes who have taken vows of silence?" Morrigan complained, walking between them.

"I cannot believe that's all you have to say on the matter!" he cried out to Leliana in the near distance. Without uttering another word, Leliana turned around quickly and flashed him an obscene gesture.

Oghren's eyes widened and he let out an amused chuckle.

"And here I was, reading this…this mawkish drivel," he ribbed, "in attempts to improve myself for you and now you have crushed all my valiant efforts with a simple ribald gesture!" he declaimed dramatically.

"Shut up," she retorted without turning.

Oghren folded his arms across his chest and nodded, entertained.

"I'm thinking I should move to Antiva."

"Oh? Do I inspire you to seek the finer things in life?" Zevran grinned.

"I'm thinking if you're such hot shit there, my chances with Antivan ladies are looking pretty good!" he chortled.

"Yes, yes…Well, if you ever go to Antiva, they will never know what hit it."

"Heh! Sounds like me!"

"I mean that literally. You'd remain below eye level," he provoked.

Oghren shook his head, still grinning.

"So, dwarf," Zevran continued, "ready for your meeting with Felsi?"

"As ready as I will ever be," Oghren decided.

"Perhaps you will be more fortunate in achieving…success," he sighed. "I am reaching my wit's end with this lack of progress."

"I'd say we have been quite successful," Alistair argued. "We have managed to ally with the Dalish, have support from the mages and the Templars from the Circle, the dwarves in Orzammar," he began listing.

"Alistair, Alistair," Zevran tutted him. He flung an arm across his shoulders. "That's not the kind of success I was referring to. It's all very thrilling and heroic, but it doesn't make for a very exciting tale without something between the sheets." He gripped the end of Alistair's shoulder, a flash of surprise crossing his face. "Say, you are feeling quite solid, my friend! Have you been training?" he asked flirtatiously. Alistair's cheeks flushed deeply.

"Help," he uttered weakly as Zevran gripped him tighter and snickered.

"Say, pike-twirler, when will we be hitting the inn?" Oghren wondered eagerly.

"We aren't far," Alistair concluded. "We should be reaching it by mid afternoon." He gazed towards the cart where Livia was speaking to Bodhan and Sandal. "Provided we can get going." He sighed.

Oghren glanced towards the beginning of the trail, tilting his head towards Leliana, who stood waiting for them, her hip jutting to the side, her arms akimbo in a pose Zevran could only gape at.

"Coming along?"

Zevran pursed his full lips.

"Go ahead. I'm rather peeved with her right now."

The elf stood stoically with them until Alistair signaled they should move out. Livia quickly peered over her shoulder as the cart creaked into motion on the dirt-packed road. Sten noticed her eyes lingered on him briefly, her expression softening, right before she turned her attention back to the trail.

"The problem is," Zevran began, wriggling his pack into a more comfortable position over his shoulders, "she does not know what she wants—or rather, she does know, but she is afraid to act on it."

They began their march, Sten peering ahead, resigned to hear the elf making pronouncements about courtship once more.

"I wish I were more like you, my ascetic friend: less invested in these amorous matters. I sincerely don't know how you do it, Sten. It's been months." He paused to consider the gravity of his words. " _Months_!" he lamented, followed by a pitiful groan. He raised an arm and smacked the Qunari on the shoulder amiably. "Perhaps you will share with me how it is that you are able to sustain such composure, how it is that you can go on like this for so long," he muttered, his eyes following Leliana's undulating hips further ahead. "I must learn the restraint and virtue of the Qunari," he decided solemnly.

Sten said nothing to encourage the conversation further.

"Hm," he uttered, uninterested.

"Someday I might return the favor," the elf smirked. "Because that restraint will only serve you well for so long. If you are going to remain here in Ferelden…You know, once…Once all of this is over," he added sheepishly, peering away once the enormity of what he was implying dawned upon him. "When it is all over, you will have to make this place your home," he continued. "You will need me to guide you," he concluded, nodding with satisfaction.

"Hm," Sten retorted again.

"You are very fortunate you have me for a friend. With my advice, you will find that navigating the ocean of complications that is a well-honed seduction is a very manageable endeavor!" He tapped the Qunari's arm once more. "Very fortunate I am here to help you!" he announced. "Because, between you and me…Who else could you possibly ask for assistance in these matters? Alistair? Although I must admit- I do take him for an expert eel-fisher," Zevran confided, breaking into a low chuckle. "Do you know what that means?"

"No," Sten quipped, discouraging further confidences.

The elf shrugged.

"Now, Oghren." Zevran shook his head. "If he ever gives you any sentimental advice, do exactly the opposite!"

They continued walking in silence, both men marching beneath a squalid fog rolling in from the lake. Occasionally, Leliana, up ahead, would pause, let the others advance slightly before casting Zevran a look that was a cross between a glare and a provocation as she turned away again and marched even more determinedly. Zevran would let out an impatient huff—a faint exhalation—and Sten would catch his pained expression.

"Perhaps, if the Qunari won't let you back, we could swap places," he fumed. "I am quite done with all her nonsense. So stubborn, so proud, so… _wrong…_ and so not in my bed!" he grumbled under his breath.

Normally, mention of how he could not return to Par Vollen irked Sten, if only because it taunted him with what he'd already had to acknowledge. He would weather the comments with his customary, indifferent, manner. It was pointless to suffer the loss over and over again, he knew. But the unknown, that cipher that had upended his life, loomed just beyond the thoughts of their unlikely survival of the Blight.

He was prepared to die fighting the Blight, for he was a warrior. He had been taught not to attach himself to anything in life except his sense of duty. Life and death did not matter. Contemplating his survival was as dangerous as being assailed by fear, and such thoughts interfered with combat, with his performance on the battlefield. In war, he simply _was_ , he simply existed—when he angled and cocked his arm, aiming his weapon, there was nothing—no hate, no anger, no delight, fear, or satisfaction—nothing but an honor-bound promise to serve. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else _could_ matter. If he was to succeed, ironically, thoughts of success had to be the furthest thing from his mind. There could only be his training, his knowledge, his limbs the physical manifestation of his strategizing. That was all.

But that had begun to shift, he realized. Everything he knew was changing, everything he knew had been challenged, acquiring new or different hues, his understanding expanding, sometimes in a deepening harmony with the teachings of the Qun, other times in a perplexing dissonance that he wrestled with.

He allowed his stare to rest over Livia, farther ahead, as she led them forward. When he thought of her, a tightness spread over his chest and launched him into a perplexity of emotions he could not afford to sort through too carefully, for they revealed fine cracks, irreconcilable contradictions in himself.

All he knew right then was that thoughts of a life in Ferelden did not fill him with such dismay anymore. He still did not know what would become of him and he still did not know what he would do. But the thought of having lost Asala…Although the sting hadn't disappeared, even as it stood aside, presiding over all his other feelings, ever present, it had definitely receded,

_Her arms had encircled his neck, her nakedness had longed to mold itself against his, their limbs entwined to chase the cold. "Stay," she had asked with her lips as well as with her body._

_Stay._

To the Qun he was soulless. To the Qun he was as good as dead.

He might as well embrace it. _Embrace and accept it_ , he decided, watching her serenely.

_All endings do is make way for another beginning._

_I might as well be free._


	20. On Choices and Matters Great and Small

"Matters of great concern should be treated lightly." Master Ittei commented, "Matters of small concern should be treated seriously."  
― Tsunetomo Yamamoto, Hagakure

* * *

The group halted before the small settlement and a winding path leading to a large, thatched building further below. A slender filament of smoke spiraled into the sky from a lone chimney. Further off, behind them, dinghies moored to the docks bobbed over the waves.

"Two days," Livia reminded the dwarf. "Settle your affairs…Then, we must be off."

"With or without you," Zevran added.

"You would never!" Oghren chuckled, flashing them a wave as he coursed down the path spryly.

"What is wrong with this picture? The dwarf gets to stay at an inn while we eat mud soup with sticks in the wild." Zevran grimaced.

"The inn is barely operational." Livia watched as Oghren faded from their view. "It has sustained too much damage since the last onslaught. We shouldn't impose. Right now it's the only shelter for a few scattered souls."

"A few horny ones as well." Zevran sighed. "I would endure anything for the pleasure of sleeping in a proper bed." He peered mischievously at Leliana. "I would even read more of that tiresome Ser Llewellyn," he teased. "Oh, but for the joyful succor of a welcoming soft and enveloping embrace into which to spend my tired body!"

"No need to be lewd," Leliana quipped.

"What lewd? I was merely describing a _bed_ in the fashion of Ser Bla-blah. Any dirtiness inferred is your doing, my dear lady. Although, I like where your mind is going..."

She huffed loudly.

"Do any of those dinghies go to Antiva so I can purchase you a one-way trip?"

"Now you cut me to the quick." He crossed his arms. Leliana seemed to actually waver. "A dinghy has no first-class amenities, you see." He turned away from her feigning indignation.

* * *

After a hasty breakfast, Livia prepared to head towards the docks. She had sent word of their arrival to the Circle a few days before and hoped to meet with representatives for a briefing.

"Wynne. Alistair," she called out.

Sten surveyed the desolate surroundings as a fog rolled over the shore.

"A boat is supposed to meet us here to take us across to the Circle." She faced the rest of their party. "While we are gone, everyone staying behind should do the usual: replenish supplies, get any repairs you can done, and find us somewhere quiet to make camp. We will return by evening."

"I am sure the Circle wouldn't mind hosting us—" Leliana began to suggest, but she was interrupted by loud vocal oppositions from Morrigan, Zevran, and even Alistair.

"Have we already forgotten that the Circle's hospitality leaves much to be desired?" Zevran began counting on his fingers. "Ground floor: grand foyer. First floor: mayhem. Second floor: mayhem. Third—"

"We get it." Leliana rolled her eyes. "I just thought it might be nice to have a proper shelter for the night."

"You didn't let me finish: I was going to say, 'Third floor: bad décor.'"

"As tempting as perusing the library may seem, I cannot guarantee I would not end up blowing up what remains of the tower should some idiotic Templar accost me." Morrigan eyed them all warningly.

"Give yourself some credit: you've survived Alistair this long," Zevran joked.

"T'is a good thing he never asked me if I have given my heart and soul to the Maker."

Alistair scoffed.

"I know better than that. Especially because you have neither."

At Morrigan's evident annoyance, Alistair seemed quite pleased with himself.

"To be honest, I would also prefer to sleep in a tent to sleeping in the tower," Wynne offered, approaching Livia. "I've spent more than enough time locked up in there." She indicated the distant tower with a slight nod of her head.

"It was just an idea!" Leliana tossed her hands up, frustrated.

"Make camp nearby." Livia glimpsed a boat emerging from the fog, gliding towards them. The boatswain, shrouded in a hooded robe, plunged his oar into the dark, murky water of Lake Calenhad. "And seek non-perishable supplies, if you can."

They waited until the boat docked and the boatswain ushered Alistair, Wynne, and Livia onboard.

"I will see you tonight." Livia directed the words to all of them, but her gaze alighted on Sten.

 _Eblok say-ost_ , he almost found himself saying in reply, staring openly as the boat pushed away from the dock. The words had come to him spontaneously—an old Qunari expression of…what?

The phrase was something he'd heard said in so many different ways. On the day he'd departed from the home he'd grown up in to begin his military training, the tamassrans who'd known him the longest had said the words to him. Their weathered faces remained in their studied impassiveness as he crossed the doorway of the house he knew he would never return to. Their voices, though, betrayed an unaccustomed docility, devoid of the usual sharp and commanding edges of his childhood.

He'd heard the phrase exchanged in lieu of farewell among old warriors who'd fought many hard battles alongside each other. He'd heard the phrase said both offhandedly and ceremonially.

He chose to say nothing, though; Morrigan stood beside him, watching him closely.

The phrase literally meant, "I am with you", but it was one of those slippery things, evidence of how a language's meaning could become abstruse from one culture to another — it was idiomatic, tricky to translate.

The fog again concealed the boat as it floated off. All they could glimpse was a rapidly fading outline.

_I am with you._

_I am not far away?_

_You may count on me?_

He welcomed the distraction of trying to pin down the elusive meaning. Once the boat was long gone, Leliana took out her coin pouch and secured it around her belt.

"All right. Let's head back towards the village."

Morrigan hauled her pack off the ground, brusquely pushing past Zevran and Leliana. She stormed forth, without an apology.

"What is her problem?" Leliana watched her march off.

"Do you want me provide you with a list ordered chronologically or alphabetically?" Zevran teased.

The two walked a few steps ahead of Sten.

"We should go and get this over with. I could use a break. Maker knows this last week has been exhausting." She rolled her shoulders back as if to prove her point. "Say, Zevran—may I ask you a favor?"

"Mm? You need me?" he replied in his flirtatious manner. "I am yours." He bowed his head with exaggerated obsequiousness.

Sten's head snapped up.

That was it—it was similar to the expression the Antivan often used and as ambiguous regarding the depths of its sentiment.

 _Eblok say-ost:_ I am yours.

* * *

The village was like so many others they had passed through: small, gloomy, and quiet.

"How quaint." Zevran peered at heavy boards nailed to a doorway. "I had no idea planks of wood sufficed to hold back an Archdemon!"

"Hush." Leliana gave him a small push forward. "If anything, this is a sign of hope: people believe someday they will return.

The square in front of the village Chantry offered slightly more activity. A smith worked outside, in front of his shop, pounding a mallet over an anvil.

"This might be a good time to get some armor repaired." Zevran headed towards the shop. "Anyone else?" he called out to them.

"Go ahead. I am going to see if I can get us those supplies Livia asked for." Leliana turned to Morrigan. "Do you wish to join—"

Before she could finish, though, Morrigan continued trudging forward, disappearing past the doorway of a small, dingy shop.

"She's in a worse-than-usual mood." Leliana turned to Sten. "Will you come with me?"

He followed the bard around the desolate marketplace. Large stretches of the square remained empty, devoid of stalls. Huddled in one corner was a sallow-faced man. Several pails had been laid out around his stool. A handful of people surrounded him and every once in a while he would raise some lids from the buckets to pull out slippery, flailing fish. As he and Leliana drew closer, people began to stare at Sten.

"Fresh. From lake Calenhad," the fisherman announced to Leliana.

"I'll take some fish for tonight, but would you also have any salted fish?" she wondered.

The man shook his head.

"Sold the last of my stock weeks ago—folk fleeing north took everything."

She cast Sten an apologetic look.

"Well, at least we can count on having a good meal tonight." She pointed at one of the buckets as she addressed the fisherman. "Show me what you have there."

Sten glanced around the empty square, trying to imagine what it looked like before the Blight had begun, when it was still bustling with trade and villagers. He could claim to have traveled through Ferelden extensively at that point. But could he assert that he knew the country well? Was what he had seen truly Ferelden? If he knew Ferelden well, he knew only one of its facets, he surmised. He knew Ferelden of the Blight: unraveling and in turmoil.

Would he have seen it otherwise, though?

_At any other time, my reasons for being here would be very different._

If not for the Blight, the only other imaginable pretext he would have had for being there would be to orchestrate the region's invasion. He weathered the villagers' expressions of veiled wariness and open fear. He realized he was surrounded by people who, in different circumstances, would have been the target of conquest and conversion by the Qun. It was a strange thought to imagine himself there for that cause. He tried to picture a hostile Alistair with his sword raised against him in defense of his country and Leliana nocking an arrow to shoot at him.

 _Or Livia, charging forth and brandishing her longsword_ , he thought uncomfortably.

His meandering thoughts began meeting dead ends: imagining how he would explain Ferelden to the Arishok collided with the stark realization he would never be doing such a thing, or his sincere hope that he'd never find himself on a battlefield facing any of his traveling companions was dogged by the realization that he would no longer be fighting for the glory of the Qun with his brethren.

He leaned against a wall, waiting patiently for Leliana, interested in the modest traffic.

"Sten—I managed to get us a large sack of flour!" Leliana sauntered up to him. "I'll need your help to carry it to Bodhan's cart in a bit."

She indicated another merchant with a small stack of withered greens.

"Just one more stop and we'll be ready to go," she informed him.

A group of children played a rowdy game nearby, running and shouting out loudly as they scurried away from a blindfolded boy. Sten observed them for a bit, thinking they were all rather doltish for making so much noise when the objective was to move stealthily in order not to get caught. It irked him that their play was so unproductive and that none of the adults passing them by bothered to teach them otherwise.

A burly, stout boy stepped back from the circle.

"Ha! Bryan might as well take the blighted blindfold off—he is too stupid to catch anyone," he shouted out viciously.

The boy was chewing loudly and occasionally erupted into obnoxious snorts of laughter. Sten looked away with annoyance while muttering "Pashaara," under his breath.

The boy overheard him and turned to see who had spoken. His flat, freckled nose scrunched up when he noticed the Qunari leaning against the wall behind him.

"What the fuck are _you_?" the boy blurted out rudely.

 _'Who'. Not 'what',_ Sten noted. _  
_

Not satisfied Sten wasn't replying, the boy marched up to him.

"You're an ugly one."

Sten peered down coolly at the boy.

"So are you."

The boy continued gaping, unfazed.

"Are you one of them ox-men?" he asked.

"Oxen are animals. There is no such thing as an ox-man."

The boy's plump hand dipped into a small burlap sack and pulled out a round, disc-like confection to his mouth.

"How come you don't have horns?" the boy continued.

"Because I don't," he answered plainly.

"My father says ox-men are a fruit of the Taint—they're Maker-forsaken," the boy sneered.

"Make up your mind. Ox, men, and fruit are completely different." Such irony, he surmised, that he was fighting to protect people like him. "I do not care for your father's opinion," Sten concluded. "It is clear he knows little. Least of all, how to raise a son," he said dryly.

"You're not even a _good_ ox-man," the annoying boy taunted him, crumbs littering the front of his tunic. "You've got no horns!" He cocked his plump fingers by his temples and made a face at him. "I don't like you," he concluded.

"The feeling is mutual," Sten retorted.

The boy dunked his hand into the sack and brought out another crumbly disc.

"What is that?" Sten asked. The object had an earthy color and a light sprinkling of white on top of it.

The boy balked and stared briefly at him before thrusting the disc whole into his mouth. "You've never seen one of these before?" he cried out with malicious amusement.

"I am going to give you another chance to answer me properly: what do you have in that sack?" Sten asked.

"Another chance? You stupid oxman: I'll have my father yoke you to a cart to plow our field—" the boy threatened brazenly.

Such fiery bravado would have to remain untested; the boy was remarkably undisciplined, Sten decided. He was round and soft. Sure, he had a fiery temper, but it was stoked by nothing more than arrogance. If he was going to go through life swaggering like that, he would have to learn how to teach his body to deliver on his mouth's promises.

"I warned you," he told the boy, stepping away from the wall. "No more chances now."

The boy's eyes widened in terror and his lips quivered, one moment away from issuing an ear-shattering wail. Before he managed to do so, though, Sten swooped down and tore the small burlap sack away from his hands.

"Consider yourself fortunate," Sten told him sternly, "that this is the extent of your reprimand."

With that, he firmly steered the astonished boy forward, right onto the path of the bumbling blindfolded lad.

"Hurrah! I got you!" the lad cried out delightedly, lifting his blindfold.

Sten strolled away from the small commotion behind him, fishing out one of those curious discs to examine more closely. Right before he bit into it, he found that it had an earthy, toasty odor.

Years of rigorous training had prepared him not to betray emotion, such as the pleasure that overcame him as the crumbly object disintegrated in his mouth with a burst of sweetness over his tongue. He had never tasted anything so… exquisite. He quickly reached for a second one, simultaneously reassured that the sack was still rather full, and regretful that there was only one sack to enjoy.

"Well, well," a provocative voice purred. It was Morrigan, trailing behind him. "That was quite a sight."

He clutched the bag tightly.

"Stealing cookies from a child." She nodded, as if impressed. "My respect and admiration for you only grow," she pestered him.

"It was for his own good," Sten remarked curtly.

They found Leliana holding several large fish skewered through the gills on long sticks.

"I could use some help." Leliana held up the fish and nodded towards the other purchases on the ground in front of her. "We need to get all these things back to the cart."

"These are hardly good provisions," Morrigan remarked. "These are all perishables."

"I know!" She blew a lock of hair off her face. "I couldn't find much that wasn't, except for the sack of flour and a wheel of hard cheese. This is the best I can do."

She glanced down at the fish, droplets of water still falling off their scaly flesh.

"But tonight…Tonight we will eat well, yes? Tonight at least we'll eat like royalty. I think we are allowed to indulge a bit."

* * *

They settled not too far from the lake rather than pitch their tents farther inland. It seemed the better choice: darkspawn usually steered clear of water.

They divvied up the chores, with Sten assembling the tents along with Zevran and Morrigan, while Leliana and Bodhan attempted to clean their fish. Nearby, Sandal ran along the shore with Gunther.

"Listen." Zevran leaned closer to Sten as they pushed some tent stakes into the ground. "If all goes according to plan, you might have the tent all to yourself tonight," he confided.

Sten said nothing: he had no intention of spending the night in their tent, either.

"Leliana's in good spirits—look at her." Zevran grinned. "Yes, yes…I think a good meal, some wine…Perhaps an offer for a massage will be most welcomed…" He appeared lost for a moment in his plotting, a calculating but content expression on his face. He slapped Sten lightly on the back.

"Are you taking notes, my immaculate friend? You get to witness first-hand how a master of seduction operates."

"Hm."

* * *

The first stars emerged in the night sky as a column of flame burst into the air. After the initial explosion, it gradually grew weaker and subdued until it crackled down into a modest campfire.

Satisfied with her handiwork, Morrigan dropped down in front of the fire pit, slinging forth a bottle of something clear from her pack.

Sten settled before the pit after scanning the lake for any signs of activity once again. The waiting was always the most draining aspect of their missions: long holding patterns alternated between short and unexpected bursts of activity. If he thought about it, in some ways it felt like an extended military campaign. He wondered if anyone else other than soldiers realized how the way one held up during those long periods of wait and inactivity indicated how battle-ready they were.

He was uneasy sitting alone with the younger sarebaas, but he had endured enough of Zevran's overbearing solicitude towards Leliana for most of the afternoon. He wondered whether people would waste so much time with those protracted mating rituals if they were given a time and place to go and ease such tensions. He thought of all the evenings he and Livia had wasted until then.

But perhaps their evening together wouldn't have been as exhilarating if it had been as predictable and certain. Maybe there was something seductive about the fortuity of chance despite so many uncertainties, he mused.

"What do you have there?" Zevran asked Morrigan as he deposited a container filled with herbs next to the fire. "The tears of your admirers?"

"Might as well be. Rashvine gin." Morrigan clicked her tongue as she plucked the bottle away from her lips.

Zevran shuddered comically before he left. She turned her green eyes to Sten.

"Would you like to try some? I convinced a merchant to part with a couple bottles from his own private reserve."

He reached for the bottle she was offering, taking a small taste. It stung his throat, going down sharply.

It left a strong, peaty aftertaste in his mouth.

"Not bad," he decided.

"T'was expensive for what it is."

"Whatever you paid was probably too much."

She grinned.

"A small sapphire."

"A foolish bargain," he agreed.

"I'll be the judge of that." She took the bottle from him and swirled its contents slowly against the firelight. "T'is quite an investment, you could say."

He did not inquire further, but she continued.

"I would like to think that I am not one to be upended by disappointments, but I am not above seeking some consolation before forging onwards," she revealed.

The tail end of an argument reached their ears.

"But the heads flavor the stew and are considered a delicacy in Antiva!" Zevran protested.

"Disgusting!" Leliana clanked some of their cooking pots together. "Good thing we are not in Antiva."

"To unexpected surprises," Morrigan stated, raising her bottle at him.

Sten remained silent. He was not sure what she was alluding to.

"I admit I was taken aback… I had other ideas, you see." She flashed the bottle in his direction again, but he refused with a shake of his head. "Too bad."

He stared into the fire.

"I can only wonder at your choice, though," Morrigan continued, stretching over the ground, settling her cheek over her fist while she contemplated him with an expression he couldn't quite define. Was it mockery? Or despondency? "T'is very inconvenient, Sten. I am not pleased about this change in my plans," she told him.

Behind them, the branches rustled.

"Boat on the water! Big boat!" Sandal emerged from the brush, announcing excitedly.

"Someone, go meet the others at the docks and bring them here," Leliana called out.

"I'll go!" Zevran sprung up from the ground, wiping his hands clean against his thighs.

Morrigan took another sip. She browsed his muscular shape. "Granted, what I had in mind did present a bigger challenge—I do not even know how feasible such an endeavor with one of your kind would be—but there are ways to improve the odds in such matters." Her eyes hovered over his chest. "Such a waste."

His eyes narrowed, but he remained cool.

"I do not know what you are talking about. Perhaps you should stop drinking."

"Perhaps you should start," she provoked.

* * *

Alistair was the first to step into their circle. At the sight of him, Morrigan sat up and tipped the bottle back, taking a bigger gulp.

"Welcome back!" Leliana greeted him cheerfully, as she carried a large fish to the fire pit.

"What is that?" he asked, surprised.

"A proper dinner. For once."

"It's not a proper dinner unless there is cheese," he joked.

"We have that, too!" She grinned at him winsomely. "But only if you help me skewer these other fish onto the roasting spits."

A rush of anticipation ran through Sten as he saw Livia walk into the camp at last.

* * *

"Where is Wynne?" Zevran looked around in confusion at her absence.

"She decided to spend the night at the Circle."

Leliana furrowed her brow as she pushed the skewer through one of the fish.

"But I thought she said she wanted to be far away from the Circle!"

Livia shrugged. As she sat next to Sten, her arm accidentally brushed his shoulder. A pleasant flush tingled over her skin and for the briefest moment, they locked gazes.

"All it took were a few familiar faces to weaken her resolve. She wanted to catch up with some of her old friends."

"In that case, I say: good! More for me!" Zevran placed one of the dressed spits over the fire.

"What news did you learn?" Leliana pressed on.

"The Circle has been in contact with Orzammar… They just received word that Lothering has been overrun by darkspawn…Reports state that they are emerging further into Ferelden in greater numbers. We are being urged to have Eamon call the Landsmeet as soon as possible, once we return to Redcliffe."

"All those people," Leliana murmured, still shocked by the news on Lothering.

"If we have any hope of mobilizing an army against the Archdemon, then we must overthrow Loghain during the Landsmeet. There is no hope of amassing any significant forces otherwise. Our allies just aren't that great in number," Livia continued. "My only consolation at this point is that I don't sense any significant changes…The Archdemon is still stirring beneath the earth; he isn't going to strike just yet."

"Soon, though," Alistair added.

"Yes. Soon, but not now." Livia nodded.

"So we are headed for Redcliffe earlier than expected?" Zevran asked.

"We can't waste time." She clasped her hands around her knees. "We'll have to fetch Oghren tomorrow."

"Shall we draw straws to see who will deliver this good news to the dwarf?"

"No need: I'll go," Livia offered. "I will give him until the afternoon, at least. We're only a few miles away from Halwell. We can head there tomorrow and overnight at the village. We'll get a full day of traveling on the following day."

Even as she addressed the others, she was acutely aware of Sten's proximity, of the tug of her desire for him.

"How do you think things are going for Oghren?" Alistair asked.

Zevran chuckled.

"He's not back yet, so I am assuming he was successful...Or that Felsi disposed of his corpse efficiently. But do you really want to know the details of such romantic matters, Alistair? I am not sure your delicate constitution can take it…"

 _Like being in two places at once_ , she thought. She acted as if she were fully present, attentive to the conversation and ribbing going on around her, grinning at the jokes, issuing short responses to questions. Every now and then she stole glances at Sten, taking in his strong profile, as he remained still by her side. She wished they were alone again, somewhere away from prying eyes.

 _How did this go?_ she thought, both bewildered and annoyed at herself for being so impatient and self-conscious. _We've sat around a campfire hundreds of times by now, so why am I tongue-tied?_

Leliana and Bodhan turned the skewers over the fire while Zevran issued unsolicited advice ("This is NOT how it's done in Antiva, you provincial people!"). Nearby, Alistair studied a map the Circle had given them, Sandal rubbed Gunther's belly, and Morrigan took swigs from a bottle in short bursts. When Livia raised her eyes to Sten, she met his gaze again.

 _It is always powerful, probing, whether we are in conversation or…_ A tingle coursed down her spine as a pleasant memory from the previous night crossed her mind.

"Did you find answers during your visit to the Circle?" he asked.

She was shaken from her momentary haze by his direct, businesslike tone.

"Answers…Yes. To which questions? I'm not sure."

"Speak clearly," he urged her.

"I meant to say that any intelligence we receive now is not reliable. The Circle has ties to the Chantry in Denerim, but it is difficult to ascertain how accurate or truthful reports regarding Loghain's actions are. While the Chantry might take its orders from the Divine, in Orlais, it also relies on the Crown's good will. I have the impression the Fereldan Chantry is in something of a turmoil. Knight-Commander Greagoir confided to us that Chantry representatives are being replaced at an alarming rate in Denerim. It is said that while Loghain tries to convince the Bannorn of its ability to fight the Blight with its armies without the aid of the Grey Wardens, he has made Rendon Howe the new Arl of Denerim and given him full powers to oversee various institutions in the capital. The Knight-Commander said he is rapidly replacing Maric's stalwarts, who have held their positions for decades, with inexperienced nobles whose only merit is a blind loyalty to Howe."

Sten's expression hardened.

"It is a dubious merit at that,' she added quietly.

"It is foolish and shortsighted to use power solely to act in one's own personal interest."

Livia pulled out a few blades of grass next to her.

"Do you mean to say that the Qun have never had to contend with attempts to abuse or usurp power?"

"It does not occur when the concept of self is indistinguishable from the Qun as a whole."

A puff of smoke laden with the odor of toasted herbs wafted in their direction.

"I find it hard to believe. What if someone clung to power because they earnestly believed that they were doing so in the name of -or for the good of- the people?" she argued.

"It is why we have the _Salasari_ ," Sten began to explain. "The Arishok, the Arigena, and the Ariqun: one body, one mind. When one side is imbalanced, the others act to right it."

"We do too, Sten." She felt that familiar surge of irritation at his assumption that everything Qunari was superior. "The Crown receives fealty from the Teyrns, Arls, Banns, and Chantry clerics. But without their support— political, military, and financial— it cannot govern."

"Hm. Perhaps in theory."

"No," she insisted, her brow furrowing. "Not only in theory. We are here, aren't we? Aren't we, as you put it, acting to correct the imbalanced side?"

"But you aren't the Crown, the Bannorn, or the Chantry," he countered.

Perhaps it had been the long day or the reports filled with uncertainty, but she bristled at his indifferent manner. She had been away all day and there was nothing welcoming or warm in his tone. It was lonely harboring all those emotions and not finding them reciprocated. She remembered how he had asked to visit her again and how for a moment she had been led to believe there was something deeper between them.

_Qunari do not form these kinds of bonds, Livia._

Her heart sank at the subsequent realization.

_We just had sex. That's all. Among the Qunari it is merely a distraction. A pleasant source of relief. Nothing more. He won't give me more than that. He has no idea how._

"No," she retorted once again, firmly, sitting up to face him, her frustration growing. "I am a Grey Warden. That was a most unexpected role forced upon me. But remember I was raised as the daughter of Teyrns. I, too, understand the concept of "country before self". If I didn't, I wouldn't be marching so willingly towards my imminent demise!"

When she finished, she noticed conversation around the fire had halted.

 _I must have raised my voice_ , she noticed uneasily.

"Is everything all right?" Leliana peered at them.

"It will be once you turn the fish again—you are going to end up charring it!" Zevran grimaced, gesticulating impatiently at the smoking fish. "I can barely stand to watch these barbaric cooking methods."

"Should I uncork the wine?" Bodhan interrupted, brushing his plump hand over a wine bottle sitting beside a row of small copper mugs.

"None for me." Morrigan shooed him away. "I have no desire to partake in that swill."

"What do you have there?" Alistair wondered.

"Nothing I care to share with you."

"I was just asking what it was. Is that so offensive? Did I ask to take a sip? No, I didn't." Alistair sniffed as he met with Morrigan's unashamed indifference. "Besides, I wouldn't want any of your…backwash."

Morrigan spat out some her drink while the others burst out in laughter.

"What? _Backwash_? And how are you living up to be a legendary Grey Warden?" she complained.

Livia took advantage of the distraction to direct her attention back to Sten.

"If you think you are marching towards your demise, then it will be as you say," Sten cautioned her.

Livia's expression hardened. _And you don't seem to be greatly bothered by it._

"It's settled, then!"

She could tell he was taken aback by her prickliness.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" she challenged him in a lower voice, drawing closer. "Did you think of me at all today while I was away? Other than as a study in _Bas_ incompetence?"

"Now is not the time." His eyes darted to the animated group chatting around them.

"Oh! Forgive me! Of course! Who decides that? Is it the Arishena?"

" _Arigena_ ," he corrected her. "And no—"

"I'm sorry, Sten. Unlike you, I can't dismiss my feelings as easily. Or rather, I shouldn't have to." At his look of confusion, she added. "Do you even have such feelings?"

She shot up back on her feet.

"I'm not hungry—I'm going back to my tent," she announced to their group curtly.

"But tonight's dinner is the best!" Leliana looked crestfallen as Bodhan plucked the first skewer off the fire. "Won't you at least have some before—"

"Good night."

Livia stormed off to her tent. The surprised silence in her wake did nothing to attenuate the embarrassment she felt over the recognition that she had been doing that an awful lot as of late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sten has a passion for cookies (and cake). He even explains it if you bring him along and you're trying to convince Templar Carroll to let you cross the lake to get to the Circle. Apparently, Sten discovered the joy of cookies when he took a bag away from a boy while passing through a village. When confronted by the Warden about it, he issues his defense, speaking of the kid very derisively and stating that he'd "relieved him" of the confections because "he didn't need more." I had to address it eventually...


	21. Of One Mind

"There is nothing we should be quite so grateful for as the last line of the poem that goes, 'When your own heart asks'."

 _Hagakure_ , Yamamoto Tsunetomo

* * *

Sten took the tin plate laden with food. For the first time in a long while, he had a generous helping. Yet, he ate his share distractedly, trying to dismantle the foreboding that threatened his calm.

_What is wrong?_

Misunderstandings between Livia and him had become standard at that point.

 _I did nothing differently_ , he reassured himself. Hadn't he always engaged in discussions with her? He appreciated their conversations, even when they disagreed. Perhaps, especially when they disagreed. She provoked and confronted him, forcing him to think in unexpected ways that led him to seeing matters from angles he hadn't ever considered. He enjoyed her company and their exchanges. It was one of the few things he looked forward to in that cold, forsaken land.

He didn't like how she had snapped at him, unwilling to talk further, expressing disappointment over the fact he hadn't behaved like the lovelorn characters in those terrible books: weak, unreliable, and needy.

He stared at his empty plate.

"How was it?" Leliana grinned expectantly, contemplating his empty dish.

"I am no longer hungry."

"Mm…Don't take that as a compliment, Leli: I suppose that if he had loved it, he would have eaten the plate, as well," Zevran clarified as he stretched across from her, reaching for yet another hunk of flakey fish.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd leave enough for thirds." Alistair thwarted Zevran's fork with his. "You might have the appetite of a Grey Warden, but you aren't one."

"According to Morrigan, neither are you!" Zevran shrugged, tapping his fork out of the way. "Besides, I think this piece might be sitting in some backwash, Alistair." He puckered his lips at the Grey Warden.

"Stop bickering: there's more fish." Leliana snorted, gently steering Zevran out of her way.

Sten caught Morrigan staring at him with interest.

"Yet _another_ tiff?" She spoke to him in that condescending tone of hers.

"A conversation where people disagree is not necessarily a 'tiff.'"

"Not even when one of those people stomps off fuming?"

He did not appreciate her scrutiny. At his peeved expression, she laughed.

"My, my. Such a face. Aren't we at a loss!"

She leaned back, seductively, her green eyes flickering in the firelight, her décolletage revealing.

"If all you seek is a pleasant evening…Then, there are better, less complicated choices."

"Hm. You are right. My tent is the most favorable choice right now."

Her grin faded.

"Poor Sten. How can you know that you don't know?"

"It is my duty to learn what is worthwhile."

She snorted lightly.

"For the glory of the Qun? Or for yourself?"

He stood up. "Qunari do not make such distinctions."

"So your glory is the Qun's glory and vice versa."

"Yes." He dropped his plate and utensils into a sudsy bucket near the fire pit.

"And right now? As a warrior without his sword…How much glory are you bringing the Qun?" She was fettering him. It was a comeuppance of sorts, he imagined.

He cast her a withering glare.

"T'is a pity, Sten. I had such grand plans for us." She stretched languidly, sensuously. "A legacy, even," she teased.

"It is best that I remain ignorant of your plans since they will not be happening. They do not seem to warrant knowing," he replied dryly.

"Suit yourself." She ran her hands down her legs. "In this case, ignorance definitely is not bliss."

* * *

He returned to his tent, Morrigan's words echoing in his head.

_How can you know that you don't know?_

What was he missing? What had he done? He had acted the same as he always had. Livia hadn't. Somehow, just when he thought he had understood, the rules changed again and he was at a loss.

 _What don't I know?_ he worried.

Outside, the others remained around the fire, slowly tidying up after the meal. They would be a while talking and finishing off the wine. He would have to wait until they retreated for the evening and the camp fell silent again. He took his boots off and rested over the bed tarp.

_Perhaps this is why the Qun do not sanction such rapports. This is why we do not visit the same tamassran more than once._

He closed his eyes and listened to the voices outside, catching fragments of conversation, banter, and laughter. All those misunderstandings were draining. And painful. It was a pain he couldn't touch: it was something no healer could wrap a bandage over or prescribe a healing draught for. It was intangible, like magic, like the insidious spells cast by those wretched mages. One moment he was feeling quite done with Livia: she could sulk in her tent, condemn him, for all he cared. He would not become something he wasn't just to please her caprices. In another moment, though, he felt helpless, craved her company, and desperately wracked his brain to find a resolution.

All that teetering: it was draining and exhausting.

He finally grew still and fought the stinging hurt that lodged within him. He breathed deeply, measuredly.

In the mindfulness of stillness perhaps he could invite clarity.

* * *

Of course, sleep would not come. Livia tossed under her blankets, unable to surrender.

 _I wish I could simply cast this sadness aside. But what did I expect? At least Sten is honest. He never pretended to be something he wasn't. He never promised me anything except to serve in battle_.

He had offered her solace in all that hopelessness. Perhaps she represented the same to him. They did share something she would define as friendship. Was it so terrible just to leave things at that? She inhaled deeply.

_I should. But I can't. My life has already veered too far beyond my control. He is not a man who understands loyalty of that kind. He even admitted he never saw the same woman twice. This could be a mere diversion. He could very well, in the same decisive and uncompromising manner he applies to everything, withdraw his attention without any warning._

If sleep wouldn't come, she wouldn't chase after it, either. She lit her lamp and, propping up her pillow over her pack, reached for a book. As she flipped the cover open, she confronted the sinking feeling in her stomach: that she would have to speak to him sooner rather than later. She would have to explain why it was that she would not continue to engage in whatever it was that they'd initiated. She could even imagine his expression of inevitable confusion.

He would probably accuse her of being unreasonable.

 _Good_ , she sighed.

He would probably ask her why she was being so irrational— what was wrong.

And would she tell him? She supposed she should. Tell him rationally. She owed him at least that much. She would have to tell him even if it made her more vulnerable. She was certain no matter how many different ways she attempted to define it, he wouldn't be able to grasp what she was telling him.

Livia knew she would have to convey that despite the fact he had done nothing intentionally to hurt her, she would no longer welcome him into her bed, would no longer surrender to his touch.

 _I am sure Morrigan would be more than willing to assist him with that_ , she thought with a twinge of jealousy.

It would be difficult to tell him that over all those months, the admiration and respect she had for him had acquired a different hue.

He would press her to explain herself and she imagined the gruff expression of puzzlement he would cast her—that same expression she had grown to find so devastatingly endearing. Then she would have to admit to him that she had, despite knowing better, despite all the vast differences between them, fallen in love with him.

* * *

Despite Zevran's earlier bravado, the elf returned to the tent that night. Sten pretended to be asleep, as he was in no mood for maudlin confidences on botched attempts at wooing.

 _It is these people's destiny to bumble about aimlessly. And I am adapting perfectly,_ he thought sourly.

He didn't think Livia would have behaved in such a perplexing manner anymore…Not after the previous night. He thought they had reached an understanding.

The entire process of establishing a sexual rapport among those people was protracted and complex because it anchored so many facets of their lives.

 _In order to get what we, Qunari, are able to enjoy without great complications, these people must upend their existences_.

Sex had more implications among the Bas than among the Qunari. For his people it was for relief and procreation. Among the Bas, it was far more complicated: it was the currency to forge alliances, it was the seal that pledged and invested entire fortunes; it was a commitment expected to last a lifetime.

He had been told over the years that those single, one-time encounters with the tamassrans were the most sensible way to go about fulfilling such urges. Those encounters were always fresh, surprising, and alluring.

 _We have it better than among the Bas_ , a Ben-Hassrath had once revealed after returning from a mission. _The Bas typically return day after day to the same men and women until they are disenchanted and bitter with each other_. _Not only is there no guidance to help them understand their purpose in life: the course of those peoples' destinies are dictated by such partnerships— imagine that? To pledge your life to bed the same person again and again… And more: they must see to each other's needs, for their leaders do very little to support them. As if it were fair to make one person shoulder all the weight of what an entire society is meant to do!_

He had never questioned the soundness of that argument, but he had to be honest with himself: if anything, from the beginning, far from growing bored, each exchange with Livia only made him want to seek her out more. Each interaction revealed something deeper, a new dimension to explore and a more complete picture.

_Perhaps the question should be: what do I want from her?_

What he did know was that he wanted to spend another night with her. That had not been something he'd sought from the tamassarans back among the Qun. Back then the next tamassran would have done just as well. There had been no need for anything deeper. No interest. He thought of his arguments with Livia, their conversations and her questions. How she struggled to piece together the glimpses he offered her of his world. How his world must have sounded as foreign to her as her world seemed as foreign to him. And yet, even in their discussions and disagreements, they had found common ground.

She valued honor and duty. She demonstrated strength and character.

She was a warrior. A capable warrior—even by his demanding standards.

It was only natural that he would admire her. How could he not?

But it was more than that. While he lay on his bedroll earlier, he'd had a realization:

He could not abandon her side in that fight.

Not just because of a sense of obligation and indebtedness.

Not because of an altruistic purpose.

It was because of that emotion that tugged at his innards with a yearning and longing that surfaced only in her presence, in thoughts of her, even in her absence. It gradually overcame him, became a part of him, alive—just like the air he breathed. He had nothing to compare it to, except that it challenged him to make peace with a paradox: how could something that upended his senses, stirred so much restlessness, also bring him so much peace, so much… _aqun_.

He made up his mind: misunderstandings were like infections—prone to worsen and spread their poison if not treated swiftly.

Sten moved silently in the tent's darkness, careful not to disturb the elf as he stepped over his sleeping huddled shape as he made his way to the outside.

* * *

When Livia heard rustling by the tent flaps, she instinctively reached for her sword. Just as the grooved metal of the pommel slipped into her hand, she heard the low, gruff voice outside.

"Livia. We must speak."

She released her grip and pressed her lips together tightly. Hadn't the previous night begun much the same way? She doubted it would conclude as pleasantly.

"Now is not the time," she stated before she had even thought it through. She cringed inwardly at her petty words as soon as they escaped her lips.

"As you wish. Let us speak in the morning," he replied after a brief pause.

She felt a twinge of guilt: she leaned across the way and lifted the tent flap. He was crouching by the entrance, his expression calm and composed.

"Just come in," she invited him.

He crawled inside and settled at the end of the bedroll. He seemed absorbed in thought, his violet eyes downcast, his serious face still. _So handsome_ , Livia remarked, with a squeeze to her heart. She worried that if he reached for her right then, she would not have the fortitude to steer him away.

 _It would be simpler to give in. To simply enjoy what he has to offer, wouldn't it? To appreciate what we have_ —she stopped herself. _There is no 'we'. That is the whole point, Livia. He is merely seeking some relief and I am someone he has grown to trust. I cannot accept this uncertainty; there is too much in my life that is already left to chance. At least in this—my heart—I need steadfastness._

She contemplated him quietly.

"You are angry with me. Why?" He peered at her in his characteristically intense manner, more curious than demanding.

She had foreseen that scenario, hadn't she?

"I am not angry at _you_ , exactly," she began. "I am mostly…" _What?_ "What I am feeling is disappointment… toward myself."

"Explain."

She sat across from him, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders.

"You told me today that you had never seen the same tamassran more than once."

"That is correct."

"And then you asked me if you could visit me again. Tonight. Why?"

"You said I could."

 _Of course. It was that simple to him._ She couldn't help grinning.

"Yes. I did. But I think we are seeking each other out for different reasons."

"What reasons?" His brow furrowed.

She rubbed her forehead. She had to be blunt.

"You are here for sex?"

"Yes."

She nodded.

"Last night was pleasant?"

His expression softened and he tilted his head slightly.

"Yes."

She lowered her eyes, fighting the flood of emotions.

"It was pleasant for me as well," she admitted quietly.

He began to move towards her, but she quickly raised her hand.

"I cannot do this, Sten."

He remained frozen in place.

"What is wrong?"

"What happened last night between us has vastly different meanings for both of us. But it comes down to this: at the end of it all, we are too different."

He sat back down.

"I do not begrudge you or blame you. You have no equivalent in your culture. But I need to tell you something important, so please try to understand: to me, this is not something to be taken lightly. I understand the tamassrans offer you comfort and some solace. I am not saying these encounters among your people aren't meaningful…but from what you have told me, it appears they are self contained and once they have served their purpose, you are expected to return to your duties and move on."

"That is correct."

She felt heavy-hearted.

"Perhaps there is wisdom and separating physical urges from feelings. But I, for one, simply cannot."

"Livia, do you wish to have sex with me?" he asked in his disconcertingly direct manner.

"Yes. I would," she relented somewhat beneath that probing gaze. "But I can't!" she quickly amended. "As much as last night was…I cannot."

"Then your logic is contradictory. You are complicating things for the sake of complicating them."

"I am not a tamassran, Sten. I cannot spend the night with you and then see you walk away as if nothing had passed between us. Perhaps among your people, revealing such a personal aspect of yourself is something less.. intimate. For me…I cannot do it. Many humans can, too, I suppose. But I never could. Maybe it's because of the way I was raised: I was always cautioned not to bestow my affections lightly because of my rank and all the implications any rapport could unleash. I think, though, that it has more to do with my temperament." She shook her head. "I could not risk revealing that part of myself unless …" She heard her voice trail off as she admired him. He peered at her in that exasperating way she had grown to cherish: focused on her ever word, taking everything she said seriously, eager to glean understanding even as he passed his dry judgment over it. "I wanted to be with you last night because…It felt like a natural progression, Sten. Do you understand?"

She hoped he would infer her meaning.

"Did I not meet your expectations?"

_No. He does not understand._

"Quite the opposite." She couldn't help her rising exasperation. "Can't you imagine or grasp what I am trying to tell you?" she pleaded.

He blinked at her, none the wiser.

"You contradict yourself. If you would like us to lie together, why create an impediment?"

She mustered her courage. _Make it swift and it'll be over soon. The good thing about this is that he won't let it drag out. Perhaps we'll be back to normal soon enough._

But she didn't want that either, she realized, heartsick.

"You are distressed. I am the cause. Do you wish me to leave?" he asked with concern.

She couldn't bring herself to say it. At her silence, though, he pushed up from her covers and moved towards the tent entrance.

"Wait."

He halted and held still, his back turned to her.

"You are right: I am complicating things between us. I honestly didn't mean to." She dropped her gaze to the worn tent ground. "See: I cannot afford to get too involved emotionally right now. It's the way I am; I need some reassurance. I understand that what I expect, what I need, is different from what you expect and want. And the truth is, neither one of us should have to deal with all these complications. Not right now."

He turned his head halfway.

"You presume to know what my expectations and wants are."

It was true, she realized. But she was quite certain she was right.

"What reassurance do you seek?" he continued, intrigued.

_Tell him. Now._

"I don't simply let any man…" She stopped, struggling to convey her thoughts. "Look: I would have never let you spend the night with me if I didn't…If I didn't feel the way I feel about you."

She noticed the perplexed expression on his face.

"It's more than respect, admiration, and friendship." She looked at his broad shoulders. "Or mere attraction. Although all those are all present as well."

She took a deep breath.

"What I am saying, Sten, is that during the time we have been traveling together, I…have developed feelings for you. Deep feelings...What I am trying to tell you is that I…" She fell silent, bracing herself for the effect of those betraying words. "I love you, Sten. And the realization that you are not able to reciprocate that…Hurts me. I realize this is a terribly inconvenient thing I am telling you. Perhaps, if we stop now… I sincerely hope we can remain friends."

She extended her hand to him—a stiff gesture as definitive as placing a barrier between them: a point of no return.

* * *

It was a colossal confusion—she was right about that.

She had concluded that because he did not act as she expected, it was impossible that his feelings for her could be deeper than simply enjoying sex.

It was presumptuous and insulting.

For a moment he was so tired of her constant need for explicit reassurance, despite the fact he was so consistent and steadfast, that he almost gave in to the impulse to retreat from her tent and consider himself successfully cured of any curiosity regarding intimate matters with the Bas.

But even when her faulty logic stung him, something else had given him pause as his heartbeat quickened.

_I love you._

If he had learned anything, it was that love made perfectly rational people act defensively to mask or defend their vulnerabilities. It was also love that made them trusting and willing to expose that fragility in the first place. He had always thought of her as so strong, so disciplined, so rational.

But how curious that she was in as much turmoil as he…and for the same wildly irrational, exasperating reason.

_More than respect, admiration, and friendship. More than mere attraction._

All of those were different forms of love, he understood. But he had awakened something even greater in her.

And he would be lying if he said he did not want it. He wanted that revelation, those emotions laid open and raw to him with a peculiar greed that was akin to hunger in its visceral need.

He realized she didn't trust him enough. Yet. She was too afraid to see past her own prejudices.

He contemplated her outstretched hand and made no movement to take it. There would be no simple translation, no middle ground in this matter.

If he wanted her, he would have to make the leap: go to her completely this time, reach her somehow.

_Speak her language. Make her understand._

* * *

At his lack of response to her conciliatory gesture, she lowered her eyes.

"All right," she uttered, her hand still extended between them. "Maybe after some time you will—"

"I am willing to engage in some of the conventions," he explained. "But I will not write or declaim poetry. Do not expect flowers. Will this be acceptable to you?"

 _What?_ What was he going on about now?

"I don't follow what you are proposing…" she quickly replied.

"You have made many assumptions about me. I do not agree: they are incorrect. Yet, I understand you may not be in an ideal state to see past them to understand the truth."

She could feel the blood rise to her cheeks. Was it mortification or a slow buildup of anger? She had been drained from mustering the courage to tell him she loved him. And what did he do? He _challenged_ her: "I do not agree." Was he seeking to argue with her when he should respect her honesty? Had nothing she'd said struck him enough to offer her a more considerate reaction?

"You are the one making the assumptions now."

"That is not correct."

She furrowed her brow, her irritation growing.

_If this isn't proof of everything I was worried about!_

"What is this about poetry and flowers? I didn't ask you to do any of that, did I? I am simply telling you that you have no obligation toward me, except to fulfill your promise to help me fight this Blight!"

He crossed his arms and contemplated her calmly.

"I know of no other way of making myself clear, Livia."

"Try," she provoked. "Because I don't have a clue of what is happening right now." An alarmed expression crossed her face as a thought dawned on her. "Are you _mocking_ me? Is what I just admitted to you considered a sign of weakness among the qunari?"

He did not waver.

"I am proposing to act in the way you would want a Bas male to act in this situation."

She held still.

"I have read and learned enough about your culture to understand that sex is complex among your people—it is more than for pleasure. Despite that, it was wrong of me to believe that for that reason, sex alone would succeed in conveying a deeper understanding between us."

She gripped the edge of her bedroll.

"What do you mean by a deeper understanding?"

"That I…feel," he continued, slowly, unsure of how one would express such things. "The same as you."

She felt lightheaded.

"Sten." She blinked nervously. "Can you be more specific?" Her heart was pounding—she could feel her entire body pulse from the tension. He did not divert his gaze from her.

"We share the same impressions: I admire and respect you. I think of you as a fellow warrior in this foreign land. And I am physically attracted to you—"

"But that's just it, Sten—"

"And more," he interrupted.

She fell silent.

"I do not know any equivalent to this in my culture," he insisted. "I do not know that there is a word in Qunlat that defines it as it does in your language. And I do not use your words lightly. So, I will do my best to convey what I feel to you. Do you understand? Tonight I want to lie with you. I waited for your return and thought of it often. If you will not lie with me, I will accept it. But I wish to be by your side. I want you to speak to me, tell me about Ferelden, disagree with me, or contradict me. Your presence will suffice. It is disturbing to see you distraught, especially because I am often the reason for your distress. I do not wish to be that to you. I only wish you well, Livia; your wellbeing is more important to me than my own."

She looked so dumbstruck he wanted to poke her in the shoulder to elicit some kind of reaction.

She spoke her next words slowly, her voice almost a whisper, "Are you saying that you love me, too?"

"I will not use that term for all the other implications associated with it."

She leaned towards him.

"What implications?"

"I do not know that I can engage in all the acts those who claim to feel love carry out among your people. There are things that are foolish, wasteful, and unnecessary. I will not misuse language, in rhyme no less, to create statements about what I feel. I also think the custom of picking flowers is idiotic. Why do dead flowers profess affection?"

"Are you telling me that if it weren't for these…conventions…these rituals…you think you could love me?" she had an incredulous look. As impatient as that conversation was making him, he realized she was seeking what he so often demanded from her: unequivocal clarity.

"No."

"Oh." Her expression clouded.

"I am saying that I will do my best to convey my emotions for you in a manner you expect, but that there will be limits and I do not wish those limits to count against me."

"So…you love me?"

"Yes," he retorted, growing crosser.

She parted her lips and drew a deep breath. Her eyes glistened softly in the lamp's glow.

"I would prefer to show you rather than tell you. Any fool can utter the words."

"You would not be a fool if you said those words to me," she continued gently.

"It is unnecessary."

"Not if you are expressing honesty. You would only be adding to clarity." She finally grinned. "And you like clarity, no?"

"Now you are mocking _me_."

She smiled broadly, and before he understood what was happening, had sprung up from the bedroll and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"I am not mocking you. I am…happy, Sten," she admitted.

He was flooded with relief and a sense of wholeness. He clutched her against him.

"So," she asked, slackening her hold and seeking his eyes. She caressed his face. "If I understood correctly…you have offered to…court me?" she wondered.

"That is correct."

"With a few _limitations_ ," she confirmed.

"The limitations merely pertain to the actions, not to any sentiments."

She chuckled, burying her face in his neck, inhaling his warm, spiced scent.

"A qunari suitor," she mused.

"Yes." He retorted. His inquistive gaze did not relent, though. "What did you and the men you bedded do together when you were not having sex?"

At the completely indiscreet and inappropriate question, she laughed, delighted.

Yes, their cultures were extremely different. A relationship would be a challenge. It was so easy to believe he was indifferent. Or rude. It was difficult not to infer and presume. And judge. With him, she would have to put aside common expectations and preconceived notions. He would challenge her. He would stretch and exhaust her imagination.

And she would probably do the same to him.

He was willing. And so was she.


End file.
